


Jehane Desrosiers

by Lookfar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 76,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookfar/pseuds/Lookfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This novel-length fan fiction was begun in 2003 after <i>Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire</i>. It is now firmly AU. After a marriage and a tragedy, its heroine, Jehane Desrosier, comes to Hogwarts as a professor, where she is drawn to the dark and troubled Potions Master, Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My First Hippogriff

Note: All of the wizarding world belongs to the genius of J.K.. Rowling. No money is being made from this fanfiction. If you wish to borrow anything I invented, email me and I’ll probably give you permission.

This story was begun in 2003, after the publication of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It was finished in 2005 but does not take into account Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so that makes it an alternate universe tale at this point.

I’m afraid I am an awful magpie when it comes to phrases and ideas. If I have inadvertently stolen something from your fanfiction, please let me know and I will either credit or return it as you wish.

 

To PMO,  
“the one to whom everything may be said”  
and  
To Professor Severus Snape  
in a thousand imaginations

 

PART I  
ROMANCE NOVEL

 

Chapter 1: My First Hippogriff

 

I met my first hippogriff because my mother died.

I was in my fifth year at Beauxbatons, the French wizarding school, when it happened. I went home for the funeral, saw my father scatter her ashes over our vineyard, and came back to school, thinking that I would pick up my school life where I had left off, the only difference being that I was now a motherless girl. But I was wrong. All my studies, games, friendships and rivalries, all the small excitements of school, had lost their charm. I was like a sick person without appetite, moving through the day without interest, dull and distant. After some time I began to spend the day in bed, half asleep, and I was so irritable with my roommates that they soon gave up urging me out.

I had been carrying on like this for a week or so when my visitor came.

I was lying in an unwashed nightgown, the voices of housemates on their way to late morning classes drifting up the stairs. My roommates had kindly left my dimming charm on the windows, and in the crepuscular bedroom it was easy to ignore the passing arc of the day.

The door flew open. I peeked out from beneath the pillow. Silhouetted in the glaring light from the hall windows was the enormous form of Madame Maxime.

Merde! I sat up in a rush. I wasn’t sure that Madame had ever been in a dormitory room, at least not in several decades. She filled the room, and her heavy floral perfume wafted over me. I steeled myself for a scolding.

But her deep voice was kind.

“Jehane, you ‘ave taken to your bed for too long. Now I ‘ave a good job for you, and you weel get up and do the work. Eef you are not ready to go back to classes, I weel permit you to make up your studies when you are able. But you weel come out.” She waved her wand to remove the charms on the windows, fully revealing the dust, crumbs and dirty laundry surrounding me and my wand lying on the floor under a biscuit wrapper. For one awful moment I thought she might actually come lift me out of bed.

“Yes, Madame,” I said, scrambling up. “Do you mind if I take a shower first?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I weel wait for you here.” The bedsprings groaned as she settled on the end of my bed and I beat a retreat to the bathroom.

+++++

Outside, the February chill stung my eyes, unused to the light and the brisk wind. Madame was taking me to the stable.

It was dark there and I stood for a moment in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust. A shaft of midwinter light, entering through a high window over the hayloft and busy with drifting motes, looked cold but the barn was warm, filled with a familiar hay and manure smell. The horses were out to pasture. Why had Madame brought me here?

“Ee is in zee last stall, ma chere. Come look at ‘im.” Now I heard it -- a scrabbling, scuffling sound and a chuffing like a sneezing cat. I proceeded cautiously down the aisle and stopped before the last stall. It was even darker in there. Gradually I made out -- what?

Sick as it clearly was, it was beautiful. Golden eyes in an enormous finely molded eagle’s head covered with precisely overlapping feathers of brown, black and tan. Heavy muscular shoulders where feathers blended seamlessly into a horse’s thick palomino winter coat. Powerful back legs and sharp hoofs that now pawed the ground threateningly. Once or twice I had read about them. A hippogriff.

It glared at me with lowered head --again the chuffing sound, and I saw that the ebony beak, with its cruel hook, was hanging open, clogged with mucus, and the eyes were gummy. The stall door was latched back. Its raptor’s legs, feathered above and black scales below, ended with – but awful!-- where one had fierce toes and claws, the other had only a thickened ball, a stump.

“Jean ‘as been trying to ‘elp ‘im,” Madame Maxime said. “Ee weel not allow eet. Ee struggles and makes ‘imself weaker. Eef ee cannot be re’abilitated, ze Ministry weel ‘ave ‘im destroyed. ‘Ee severely injured ze villager ‘oo found ‘im.”

The hippogriff turned his head to stare at me from one eye. I stared back.

“I know zat you are good wiz animals. Weel you try? “ Madame asked, laying a huge hand on my shoulder.

A singing feeling ran through me. I was fully awake for the first time in months, keenly aware of the planks beneath my feet, the smell of wet feathers and fur, the glowing eye that examined me. My body filled with excitement and a tingle ran over my skin. My hands came up, longing to touch his head. She was giving him to me.

She was giving him to me.

“Has he eaten?” I asked.

“Very little,” she said.

“I’ll try to feed him. Could you send a house elf with strips of raw beef and some blankets?” I asked. Keeping my eyes on him, I settled myself on the floor out of reach of talons and beak. He hissed and lowered his head further.

“I weel see to it,” Madame answered. “And Jean weel help you wiz anysing you ask.”

“Thank you. I guess I’ll just – stay here – and – find my way.”

“I weel come later and check on you. You weel be careful, yes? “

“I will.”

“Zen, till later. Good luck, Jehane.”

When the house elf Tignette arrived, I folded one blanket into a pad beneath myself and put another over my shoulders. In the late afternoon of winter and with the horses gone, I knew the stable would cool quickly. Half an hour passed contemplatively as we watched each other. When his head came up slightly, I thought I could move without frightening him.

“Mmm, this is good meat,” I said softly, holding up a piece. His head rose again, seeking the scent in the air. I leaned forward without getting up, holding it out.

He lashed out suddenly with his stump, trying to knock it from my hand, and at the same moment I saw that he was tied to a metal fastening in the stall. The rope had been hidden in the feathers of his neck, and he jerked against it. I bit back a cry of pity but I held on to the meat.

“No. No, Beauty Boy,” I said soothingly. “You take it from my hand. You take it from my hand, and I’ll help you. And soon we can take off the rope.”

He did not take the meat from me that day or night. In the last try he nearly slashed my face with his beak. I slept on my blankets in front of his stall. At dawn I woke, ravenous, for I had asked Jean to stable the horses elsewhere and leave us alone, forgetting that I might need some dinner. I opened my eyes without moving. The hippogriff was on the floor of the stall, sleeping sphinxlike, with his beak tucked between his front legs. Carefully I inched my hand into the pot of meat. Without lifting my head, I brought a piece to my mouth and took a bite, then stretched forward, extending my open hand along the floor. I was in a very bad position to protect myself if he decided to strike. The hippogriff gave a small snort and awoke. Clear eyes gazed at my chewing, then he extended his long feathered neck and delicately took the meat from my palm.

+++++

By the end of that day, he had eaten and drunk well, always out of my hand. In a few days more he let me curry his coat and cover him with a blanket at night. He would not let me touch his head.

I sent to Madame Rossignol, the matron, for a fortifying potion suitable for a hippogriff with a cold. The note which accompanied the return flask thanked me for livening up her otherwise routine round of sore throats and Quidditch injuries.

I was afraid to untie him. Not on my own behalf, for we had established a beginning trust that I hoped would protect me, but for him. If he hurt anyone the Ministry would kill him. Jean the stableman had brought me whatever books could be found about hippogriffs and their habits. They gave me information about the training of young hippogriffs and the care and handling of older ones, but nothing on rehabilitating violent ones.

Returning from a lunch break after a week or so, I met Jean in the yard. I told him my worries.

Jean’s weathered, handsome face wrinkled in thought. “I did look at some of those books,” he said. “Not much -- I’m not much of a reader – but I do recall about the bowing and the naming. Did you bow to him yet?”

“Oh! no,” I said. “I just hadn’t.”

“And there was something about the naming, too. What are you calling him?”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “You know, Sweetheart, Beauty Boy, Honey – like that.”

“Mm,” said Jean, twinkling at me. “Try giving him a real name, one he can live with. Horses, you know, live up to the names we give ‘em. You can’t go through life called Sweetheart.” He grinned at me and I let go of my anxiety long enough to smile back. It felt good.

That evening, after I had fed the hippogriff and given him his water laced with colds potion and a flask of Potion Restituez, I stood before him and drew myself up, signaling, I hoped, a formal approach. Did I bow – or curtsey? Since I was wearing jeans with mucky knees, bowing seemed more appropriate. I bowed low.

He raised his head and looked down his beak at me, pulling the rope tight. His meaning could not have been more clear.

“Yes, of course.” I moved quickly to untie the rope from his neck, quashing a slight frisson of fear in my belly. This was the only way to move forward.

The knot had tightened and I swore softly as I worked at it. He cocked his head as if amused. Finally I leaned over and worked the loop out with my teeth. The rope fell and hung from the side of the stall.

I stepped back, and bowed again. He paused for a moment, as if teasing me, then extended a feathered leg and lowered his body to allow me to climb on. My hands trembled as I steadied myself against his shoulders where feathers gave way to fur, and when I had settled myself on his back, I laid my face against the short feathers of his neck, and sobbed.

+++++

 

I never roped him again, although the books treated this as a necessary practice. To approach him with a rope or the standard leather hippogriff collar once I had untied him seemed a betrayal.

Jean had told me that horses live up the names they are given. From the practical manuals, I learned that a hippogriff’s name both acknowledges his essential nature and influences its expression. Therefore, a successful breeder will be a skilled and intuitive namer as well. Superstitiously, some bad luck attends a hippogriff who flies before naming. Hence, the common expression “waiting on the egg,” eg., anxiously watching, refers to the fact that hippogriff eggs hatch within a day of laying.

Alternately, captured hippogriffs are named by their trainers as part of the breaking process. The naming is associated with the leather collar, leg chains and beakstrap used to establish control of the animal, and reflects his birth into human society or his new status. Captured hippogriffs may be given names such as Loyal or Faithful.

But I had not been present at my hippogriff’s hatching and I would not pursue the path of breaking him.

I was still sleeping in the stable, usually curled up just in front of the hippogriff’s stall, my back against a bale of hay. I wanted him to see me all the time, and for my part, I felt better around him. The memory of my recent depression was fresh, and I was afraid to go back to the dormitory.

One night I stood in front of him, but he was larger, much larger, and had grown silvery gray, almost translucent like a ghost, yet at the same time glowing like stained glass. I looked up as if he were a statue, and now he seemed solid, gothic, his head the beaked down spout of a cathedral. He wore some kind of headdress or crown, but I could hardly see it as I craned my neck. My whole body fit in the space between his forelegs, no, now even his scaled lower leg was as tall as I, and he lifted one taloned foot and placed it on my shoulder. Its claws gripped me, steadyingly, as one who wishes to make a point, and a clear masculine voice spoke close to my ear. It said, Protecteur.

I woke all at once and in possession of the whole dream. It was dawn, and twin puffs of condensation rose from Protecteur’s nostrils as he slept, head on forelegs. He must have heard me stir, for he slowly brought his head up and regarded me, first from one eye and then the other.

“Protecteur,” I said crawling to him with my blankets wrapped around me in the cold. He laid his stump on my waist, gave a grunt, put his head down and went back to sleep.


	2. A Sandy, Winding Road

Chapter 2 – A Sandy, Winding Road

My mother was a lovely, gentle and talented English witch. I never met my grandparents but I know that their marriage was unhappy. My mother was the youngest, the baby and only girl, born late in her parents’ struggling life, neglected by my grandparents in their war with each other and in the tussles and expense of raising five sons. My uncles treated her fondly as a lesser brother in a back-thumping, teasing way, but she was not suited to this tomboy role, being feminine, shy and inward.

She graduated from Hogwart’s but instead of going on to university like her brothers, she chose to attend a technical college program in wandmaking.

My mother was gifted in the subtle synergies of materials that make the wand unique and suited to its owner. She took joy in her craftsmanship and was known for the character and magical properties of her wands, as well as their beauty. Although she did not promote herself, she had a small following of wand aficionados before she was twenty-five. I believe that this was one of the happiest times of her life.

My father’s background was quite different. From one of the oldest wizarding families in France, he was expected as the eldest son to aspire to a high post in wizard public service, at Le Ministere de Magie, perhaps, or at a university or cultural institution. But he preferred a life of exploration and experience to one of achievement. He left Beauxbatons before graduation and by the age of thirty had vagabonded across several continents. He loved to be outside and was most adept at those magics that make use of the natural world.

My paternal grandparents could never comprehend my father or overcome their disappointment in him. At a loss as to how their son was to identify himself – or, more accurately, how they were to identify him -- in a legitimate manner, they gave him a vineyard when he turned thirty-five in hopes that he would settle down into a regular occupation.

Father was uninterested in growing grapes or making wine but he did enjoy being on his land, and he was not averse to business. As he explored the idea of farming hardwoods for magical purposes he attended a wandmaking conference in Paris. There he met my mother, who had come there from London.

I have tried to imagine their meeting and their first days together, for when they left the conference after five days and traveled to the south of France to meet my father’s parents they were already engaged . Pictures of my mother at age twenty-five show a fair, slight woman with a heart shaped face and a dark braid. She was pretty, with a chiseled cupid’s bow to her rosy lips, a fine sharp bridge to her delicate nose and a small pointed chin, but she had the knack of being unnoticed, and I suspect she had had only a few small romances before my father. Her hands, so strong and sure in possession of woodworking tools, were as small as a child’s.

My father, at thirty-six, was not a handsome man. He was over six feet tall, with a bush of coarse ginger hair, a speckled beard of rust, brown and white, and large wind-reddened features. If my grandparents had hoped that marriage would make their son more conventional, they were again disappointed. I was born on the vineyard in a yurt without running water, attended by a midwitch and with my father and several goats assisting. In the following two years, while raising both me and a business in custom wands and hardwoods, they built a log house and a workshop and dug a well.

If there were any shadow over my early years in the vineyard (and we always said, “in the vineyard,” although the grapes were untended and eaten by birds) it was that I had no siblings. None came, and I sensed the sadness in my mother, even when she most enjoyed her games with me. She made wonderful dolls and toy animals from scrap wood, and we gave them outdoor cottages in stumps and hollow logs

I have said that there was the one shadow over my childhood, but that is not true. Looking back, there was one other, present and unnamed. As I gradually and wordlessly came to realize, my father was one of those people who can be truly close to only one other. I am sure he cared for me deeply; he protected me and provided for me, and until I went to Beauxbatons, he was responsible for my education. But as I grew from self-centered little girl to outward-looking older girl to almost-teen, my attempts to forge a relationship with him in my own right fell short. He could not talk about what mattered to him, and he could not listen usefully to what mattered to me.

But children don’t question what they have always known. Because my parents were in the workshop or on the land so much, I spent much happy time alone outdoors. In my memories, I think first of the winding roads of the vineyard, soft with the sandy soil, and how I followed them. In my memories it is always summer and I am barefoot, digging my toes into the sand as I walk.

I liked to sit quietly and watch the animals go about their business, to see a fox eating ripe grapes, rising up on his hind legs with his black paws hanging down. In the hardwood stands I climbed trees and sat for hours. I kept pets -- lizards, mice, tadpoles, songbirds and a flying squirrel. Many of my baby-magics were those that charmed animals, called them and made their minds clear to me.

When I wasn’t outside, I was reading, like many a lonesome child. My parents made all kinds of books in great number available to me. My father, an autodidactic, often guided my reading with suggestions. I ate up piles of novels, and I suppose this is how I came to think of myself in the second person, as a protagonist in a story, and to account for the odd, unchildlike formality of my speech and vocabulary.

I might not have grown up so odd if there had been other wizarding families in our region. My parents were liberal and would not have prevented me from mixing with the Muggle children two miles down the road, but I was shy and awkward and unsure that I could maintain the necessary concealment. It was easier to make my mother my playmate, to help her in the workshop and do lessons with my father, and when they were busy to live in my own world of imagination, observation and books.

This changed when a wizarding family took over a larger vineyard contiguous with ours. Msr. Lamott, was enthusiastic about viniculture and recognized my father as a rich source of information on the locale. Mme Lamott, with her great joie de vivre, love of books and creative house magic, became my second model of what a woman can be. The two families were soon good friends as well as good neighbors.

Their daughter Thalia was the first companion of my heart. We were nine years old and immediately formed a complete world between us. I cannot say how I, who had never had a friendship except with my mother, could so easily and surely slip into that one. It may have been the combination of our gifts, for Thalia was lively and outgoing where I was restrained and thoughtful; I considered her wonderfully bold and she thought me a genius of invention. Many of my imaginary games were fantastically elaborated under her generous spirit of excess. Her rough-and -tumble life with her younger brother and sister wore some of the awkward edges from me, while she found in me a quieter place of rest.

Thalia took the lead in the plays we wrote and drafted her sister and brother into the supporting roles. I insisted on the non-speaking parts. We became spies and made up secret codes. We got into trouble using magic we had been forbidden. We saved our galleons to buy a horse, or possibly a Pegasus, and share it between us. We slept at each other’s houses and stayed up late planning many different lives together.

And to my joy, the September we were both eleven we enrolled at Beauxbatons School of Magic.

 

 

Notes:  
The only part of J.K. Rowling’s invention that I have never found believable is the ignorance of Muggle culture in the wizarding world. It makes no sense to me that intelligent people, many of them born of Muggles, would ignore so many useful and beautiful ideas and products. I’ve chosen to ignore just that part of Rowling’s work. Hence, the books Jehane reads so voraciously are both wizarding and Muggle.


	3. Discipleship

Chapter 3 – Discipleship

The day after I received his name, I stood in the barn door and called him out of his stall for the first time. Holding out a piece of meat, I said, “Come out, Protecteur, come out and stretch your legs.” He regarded me steadily, then closed his wrinkled lids for a moment, as if he were embarrassed and needed to recover himself.

He shifted his weight to his shoulders as he came forward, and I saw his problem.

His entire gait was thrown off by his shortened leg, and this powerful, beautiful animal, who should have moved with grace, galumphed across the barn floor like a rickety cart with a bent wheel, each step pitching him to the right as his stump came down with a thump and pushed off again. His wings half unfolded in a syncopated rhythm, struggling to keep him balanced, and the talons of his foot scrabbled on the boards. He made his way to me and stood, head high, stump lifted. The breath of exertion whistled in his nostrils. My heart ached for him, but I did not let on.

“Brave man,” I said. “Brave man.” Then, struck with an idea, I said, “Show me your wings,” lifting and stretching one from beneath.

I barely got my head down in time as the enormous wings unfolded, swept forward and beat the air, sending bits of straw skittering across the floor. They stretched as wide as he was long, flawlessly plumed in an intricate pattern of black, tan and brown. And they were perfect.

“Well then,” I said from where I sprawled on the floor, laughing. “Well then, I think we have something to work with.”

+++++

Jean felt it would be better to fly him at night. Fewer things to frighten him and no students for him to frighten. As I was still feeding him by hand, I had no doubt that he would return to me, but how to teach him to come at a call? Le Soin des Hippogriffes had the young, barely fledged griffs fly on a leather lead until they grew accustomed to the return. The trainer was to shorten the lead and pull them in while giving the signal. But besides the improbability of my being able to pull Protecteur anywhere, I had committed myself to teaching him without physical restraints.

Jean came with me the first two times. We chose a night of the full moon. I led Protecteur out to the pasture by walking with him, my hand resting lightly on his neck. If I maintained enough tension in my arm that my own movements communicated themselves to him as we went, it seemed to make my wishes clear enough. His willingness to comply, however, was mysterious.

It was slow going with his damaged leg. When we had reached the far side of a stand of trees, I offered him a strip of meat, giving the return whistle, a series of three long notes, as I did. He took it and gulped it down.

“How do I get him to go so he can come back?” I asked Jean.

“I don’t know,” said Jean. “With a horse you slap his flank. Try that.”

I slapped, with no result. I got behind Protecteur and gave him a little push, feeling ridiculous. He paid me no attention. I ran a little way, looking back as if I were launching a kite.

“It’s no go,” I said. “Literally.” Jean and I leaned against a tree, studying the problem. Some time passed as Protecteur cleaned his claws with his beak.

Suddenly his head snapped up. With a discombobulated flurry of wings, hooves and tail, he raced awkwardly toward the far end of the field. Then like a racehorse meeting a fence he leapt, and at the top of the arc caught the air on a downbeat of muscular wings and soared.

Now he was all grace and power, legs drawn up as the mighty wings carried him higher. He circled over us, then dove. I saw him grab something from the air. Another wider circle around the perimeter of the pasture, then down to earth in front of us. I had been too surprised to whistle.

From his beak hung the limp body of a bat. He gave it a little shake, then swallowed it whole.

The next night, I climbed a tree and chucked a dead mouse as high I could while Jean gave the whistle. It fell before Protecteur could launch, but it got him into the air. He returned at my whistle and took a piece of meat.

After that, I took him out alone for an hour’s practice every night. I didn’t feel as if I were training him, but rather collaborating on how we would work. He still followed under my hand, and as the days passed he placed his neck under there when he wanted to go. We invented flying games such as Fetch the Mouse or Find Me, in which I would hide while he was getting up, then whistle him down. He always found me.

+++++

 

By now Jean and the stable boy came and went freely. Protecteur ignored them, but I wanted to accustom him to other people, so I began bringing them closer and encouraging them to feed him. Jean had a good way with him, different from mine. He treated him kindly but commandingly, like a horse.

“Don’t touch his head,” I told Jean. “He’ll bite you.”

“Someone did him a piece of harm,” Jean replied. “He’ll let you touch his head someday. You keep at this. He knows you’re trying to help.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s blooming.” Jean stroked the hippogriff’s neck. “So are you.” The look he gave me over the tawny back contained admiration, respect and – for the first time that I’d ever noticed – masculine attraction. I was fifteen years old and I silently cursed my fair skin as I blushed.

Once Protecteur began flying at night, I returned to my classes and tried to catch up on my work. I knew the semester might prove a wash, given that I’d done no schoolwork for nearly eight weeks, but I wanted to make an effort in gratitude to Madame. I attended classes during the day and spent my free time studying in the barn, using a hay bale as a desk and Lumos for light.

+++++

There was still the problem of riding, however. Protecteur liked having me on his back, and sometimes invited me with a bow after a grooming session or at a quiet time in the barn. There is a theory that all hippogriffs, even wild ones, are descended from previously domesticated stock, and that wizards have been riding griffs since prehistory. But given Protecteur’s disability and difficulty getting himself into the air, how was he to do it with ten stone of me on his back? Once again, Jean came up with an idea.

I’d started taking Protecteur out in the afternoons despite the audience of students and sometimes staff that collected. I didn’t like talking about him or being watched, so I ignored them, hoping they’d tire of it and go away.

One day he landed on the stable roof. Gripping the peak with his forelegs, he settled his hind legs on the sloped side, but not before freeing a number of shingles with his hooves. The roof creaked alarmingly.

“Get down!” I yelled. “Get down, Protecteur, that’s not safe!” Finally I remembered to whistle. He launched himself with one push – more shingles rained down – into a graceful circle that took in the yard before meeting me on the ground.

Jean had been cleaning tack nearby and looked up.

“He mustn’t do that again,” he said.

“Right,” I replied. “We’ll work on it.”

“But,” he grinned, “look there.” And he gestured to the hayloft door.

I stared for a moment before I got it. “Could we?” I asked.

“Let’s do it now,” he said.

That is how I came to be standing in the hayloft door, twelve feet off the ground, whistling Protecteur down. He understood immediately, circling high then plunging toward the opening like a kingfisher. At the last moment he folded his wings tight as I whipped out of the way. His one foot and two hooves hit the loft floor and slid, scrabbling, until he came to rest awkwardly against a stack of bales.

I brought him around to the door and Jean whistled him out. He leapt from the edge without hesitation, pushing off with his powerful flanks, spreading his wings and catching himself just as he crested. It was beautiful.

“Don’t you wait!” shouted Jean. “Call him back and ride.”

Back in the loft he turned right around and came to the door. I bowed. Protecteur swiftly kneeled.

Better not to think of the drop. My heart pounded as I straddled his back, holding him lightly at the wing joints. He was waiting. Without question, I knew what to do. I tightened my legs around his body, tucked my elbows and leaned forward.

We fell.

Eyes screwed shut, I felt the barnyard rush up at us and prepared for the impact. Then Protecteur whipped his wings open – whump -- and with single thrust, bore us up. I heard his hooves scrape the ground, but we were safe, we were climbing into the air and I dared to open my eyes and see the barn below and Jean cheering, waving, and there was Thalia on the path to the Quidditch pitch pointing and screaming, or was that me letting loose a pure high whoop of joy?

I let Protecteur choose our way. We circled the chateau, garnering startled gapes from students caught window-gazing. He took me over the kitchen gardens, bare and sere in the January frost; the river, still running under a partial coat of ice; and the pastures. Madame’s winged horses moved nervously away as we passed.

It was freezing up high and I sunk my icy hands into the feathers of his neck to warm them. The feel of his muscular body flexing in the grip of my legs with the beats of his wings was exciting and calming both. Laying my body along his, I rested my head on his shoulder and looked down. All was strangely natural, this very first time. He was following the path of the river, out into the countryside. After five miles, I began to worry about Muggles. Beauxbatons, of course, is concealed and covered with Muggle-repelling charms, but I had never thought to ask how far the invisibility extends.

As soon as I sat up, he subtly checked himself. Only a slight shift to the side and pressure from my knees, and he circled back toward the school, once more following the river’s path.

When the barn came into view, I tightened my grip and again he shot through the loft door. This time, however, when he slid to rest against the bales at the far end, I pitched off and rolled.

“Okay, we’ve got to work on the landing,” I said, brushing off the straw.

As I came down the hayloft ladder, Thalia and Sandrine, my two best friends, were waiting. They gave a soft cheer and surrounded me in a group hug. Thalia had tears in her eyes.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I didn’t get married,” I scoffed. But I felt as if I had.

 

+++++

 

One late afternoon in the quiet of the barn, I swotted wearily away at an essay for L’Histoire de la Vie Francaise Magique. Brushing the quill idly against my lips, I pondered whether it was possible to stretch the material I had gathered to cover the required 24 inches of parchment, or if I’d need to return to the library. An owl swooped in through the hayloft door and landed with a flutter on my bale. Protecteur, who had been dreaming, opened his eyes with a hiss at the sound.

“Oh! Have you got something for me?” I rarely received owls. I detached the scroll from her leg and looked around for a treat. Empty coffee cup, Chocolate Frog card without Chocolate Frog, packet of Charme Savoureux biscuits, empty. I shook the broken biscuit bits into my hand from the wrapper and offered them on my palm. She took them delicately, gave me a dirty look, then flew off.

The scroll was from my father.

Dear Jehane,

I hope you are well. Madame Maxime tells me that you are recovering from your recent shock, that you have returned to your schoolwork and that you have undertaken the training of a hippogriff. To that end I have created an account for the boarding of your animal and one other if you can acquire it.

I will be traveling during the summer on business and I think it will be wise for you to stay at Beauxbatons. You can catch up on your schoolwork and continue your hippogriff training without interruption. I will be home so little in the summer months, I am afraid you would not care for it here.

I will visit you there in August.

Fondly yours,

Papa

I felt sick to my stomach and regretted the coffee and Chocolate Frog I had eaten instead of lunch. Not going home. I recognized that this was not an invitation to stay at school, but a refusal to allow me back home. He didn’t want me there to remind him of our old family, the family my mother made.

By myself, I wasn’t enough.

I felt horribly tired all of a sudden. The essay was forgotten as I pulled a horse blanket off the shelf and stumbled to Protecteur’s stall. He was lying on the floor, asleep, his head resting on his crossed forelegs. I curled up against his warm side, cradled between his feathered elbow and furry hindquarters. With my head against his shoulder, I fell into a deep sleep under the blanket, oblivious to the daylight.

Half-waking in the dark, I felt Jean putting another blanket on me, then slipped back into sleep.

When I awoke for good, it was in the blue light of predawn. Someone was tugging on my hair. I opened my eyes slowly. Protecteur had turned his head all the way around and was methodically drawing the curly strands through his beak. I raised my face to him, and he rubbed his forehead against mine.

“Hey, boy,” I whispered, slowly raising my hand. “Hey hey hey there.” And he bent his head to my fingers to receive my caress.

+++++

Over the summer I did catch up to my class and move on to the sixth form. Some of the staff and a few students remained at Beauxbatons, but I spent most of my time at the barn and the stables, so Jean and Claude, the stable boy, were my most frequent companions. I enjoyed their practical wisdom and Jean’s fatherly protectiveness. By dint of not thinking about home and working with Protecteur every day, I kept myself happy.

In August Jean announced that he had found me a second hippogriff.

“I didn’t know you were looking,” I exclaimed.

“Didn’t want to disappoint you if it couldn’t be done,” he said gruffly. Hippogriffs, of course, are expensive, and rare, but what is more, as I got to know her, I realized that Jean had been screening for the right temperament as well.

She was a yearling and had been the pet of some spoiled wealthy child who had spoiled her as well by giving her no training, then tired of her. She behaved like a neglected child, seeking attention with misbehavior, treating those around her with contempt and showing no respect for herself. What she needed from me was completely different from what Protecteur had, yet once I found the key, all my actions were guided by understanding. Within a month of firm, loving and consistent discipline she was a beautiful, responsive animal, ready to be trained for riding.

She was brown and tan with a rare brown beak and talons. Her previous owner had given her a cute, stupid name, so I called her Serrebrune, meaning Brownclaw.

Thalia came back to school two weeks early and we had a wonderful time. She talked nonstop as was her wont, and I listened and commented. We climbed trees and walked into the town and slept in the stables. She and Protecteur achieved a détente of sorts; she would pet and feed him, and he invited her onto his back, but she refused to fly him, and perhaps she was wise in that. Looking back, I see that they were adjusting to each other as new love and old friend often must do.


	4. A Wedding and a Marriage

Note: The French pronunciation of the name Guy is Gee, with a hard G. Sounds better that way, n’est pas?

 

I did not have any romances at Beauxbatons. I was a late bloomer, then I was a grieving girl, and then I was just as happy to be in the stable with the hippogriffs and leave the frightening world of boys to Thalia.

And then, there were my looks, which were nothing like my pretty mother’s. She was small and fine, with shiny dark hair and red lips. By the age of fifteen, I was six feet tall. I have the kind of fair skin that looks especially reddish around the nose and eyes, that blushes and breaks out and shows the mark of everything that touches it. I have my father’s large pointy nose and big hands, and his pale greenish eyes and invisible lashes. To myself, I looked like an albino rabbit.

If I have a best feature, it might be my hair on a good day, which is to say once or twice a month. On a good day, it curls in strawberry blond waves and ringlets. On bad days, it forms a pinkish cloud that can only be tamed by the strongest binding spells and extra-thick elastics.

I despaired of my small breasts, overlooking my broad shoulders and long muscular legs as insufficient compensation. A boy in my Magical History class told me I looked like a giant and I never got over it.

Rather than go down in defeat, I took myself out of the competition. I was shy anyway, and busy, and not in need of a crowd of admirers, as Thalia was. I enjoyed her romantic life vicariously, but I didn’t look at boys, and if they looked at me, I never noticed. I read a lot.

Now I know that there is so much more to loving a face and body than how well it approximates the ideal. But I hadn’t learned it then.

Once graduated, I had one or two boyfriends, nothing that lasted and no one special. I preferred not to consider why this state of affairs — or no-affairs — never came under examination. I suppose the truth was that I felt myself deficient in some way. Thalia had had the gift of flirtation and attraction, but it was as mysterious to me as one of those magical talents some are born with, like divination — or for that matter, non-magical talents, like rolling one’s tongue. Once out of school, my job as a Healer-apprentice at an animal hospital put me in the middle of a jolly group of people, and of course the animals were a source of constant pleasure and friendship. I set owls’ and augurey’s wings, dealt with bilious cats, injured dogs and infertile screwts. It was a good life. And of course, I had Protecteur and Serrebrune to keep me busy all weekend.

Healer Lefkowitz called me into an examining room; he was a yeller, and his voice carried all over the facility. "Hey, Jehane! Is Jehane out there? Jehane, I’ve got something to show you here!" I put down my charts and followed his voice. In the examining room was a hippogriff about six weeks old. She was the size of a Labrador, a beautiful golden tan all over, and shivering with nerves. I crouched to look at her, while Healer Lefkowitz spoke to the owner.

"Jehane here keeps two griffs herself. You won’t find anyone who knows more about them."

"Hey, little girl," I said. "Where’s your mama? You are some beauty." I stroked her neck and noted that she stretched up to receive my hand. Good, she wasn’t traumatized, and someone was taking good care of her, if her glossy coat and clear eyes were any indication.

"Her mother got tangled in some power lines," said the owner. "She died, and I found the nest. Took me three days."

"Come on," I said. "There’s no place around here wild enough to hide a hippogriff nest."

"Nah, of course not. I’m a ranger at Astolfo National Forest. When I found the mother’s body on the road, I suspected there was a baby. I’ve had her for two weeks and I was coming here to visit my folks, so I thought I’d get her checked out."

I stood up. "Do you know anything about raising them? You can’t keep her like a pet, you know, or she’ll be spoiled." I turned around and stopped. This creature was as beautiful as the hippogriff. He had a thatch of multicolored blond hair, bright on top and dark beneath, with streaks of all shades running through, and a straight, handsome slightly sunburned nose. He gave me a perfect white smile that crinkled up his eyes. Muscular and compact, as far as I could see under his outdoor robes, and a bit shorter than me. The hand he gave me was surprisingly soft and warm.

"I’m Guy Lavigne. I’m really glad to meet you, Jehane." It was a measure of his genuine friendliness that I grinned back goofily instead of manifesting my usual shy and formal first-meeting self.

"Yeah." I just stood there. He held my hand a little longer than necessary.

"Look, I checked her over and she’s fine," Lefkowitz said. "Beyond that, I’m really no expert. You should ask Jehane about training her. Tell him what books he needs, Jehane." And he left the room.

"Um, well, the classic is _Le Soin de Hippogriffes,_ " I said. "It’s in print, but you’ll have to order it. Not much call for it, of course." His eyes were green, and he was looking at me intently, yet again, in the friendliest way. I wondered vaguely if he did this to everybody.

"Lefkowitz said you keep hippogriffs," he said. "Did you train them yourself?"

"Uh, yes, I guess I did. But I didn’t exactly train them. I have sort of my own method." I could hear myself and thought I sounded mentally defective. Argh.

"I’d love to hear about it," he said. "If you have a few minutes." He looked down, a little shy himself. "You’re probably pretty busy in this practice."

"Uh, well. Not really." It was that shyness that made me want to encourage him.

 

"Well, have you had lunch? Can I buy you a sandwich?"

Was he asking me out? My heart pounded uncomfortably. "Sure," I said. "We can put your griff in the kennel."

"Oh, great," he said. "Excellent. I have a lot of questions. Thanks so much."

That is how we started. Two days later he came over to my place in the country, to watch me work with the hippogriffs. I gave him some tips on his little one. He named her Filleambre.

The second time was meant to be a morning’s training session. It turned into twelve hours of walking, talking, cooking and silent companionship. Before he left, he put his arms around me.

"I really like you a lot," he said. "Can you tell?"

"Yes, I guess I can," I said.

"Okay then," he said, as if something had been settled, and he kissed me.

After that he was at my place on all his days off, and I was as happy as I had ever been. I couldn’t believe that this glorious sunny boy was mine, that he so passionately liked and admired me, and that we could have so much fun. He was a natural rider; he took Serrebrune out when we flew and I took Protecteur, whose quirks and needs I understood better. He stabled Filleambre with me; she was the first griff I worked with from a fledgling and I saw that the bonds of trust and communication I had formed with the older hippogriffs could be established even sooner with a young one. Filleambre, for her part, seemed to regard us as parents and showed an even partiality for each, although I felt she flirted more with Guy.

I had never met anyone like Guy, so uncomplicated and smart at the same time. In everything he did he was present and wholehearted. He said what he meant and no more. He didn’t speculate, second-guess or worry. For someone like me, for whom thinking, imagining, fretting and planning were a whole second life, he was a revelation.

His simplicity brought me up short. One summer day we spent hiking and flying around the park where he worked. We sat and rested at the top of a mountain, watching the griffs circling below us. Guy played with my ponytail and stroked my neck.

"Do you think we should get married?" he asked.

"Just like that?" I responded as if he had spoken impulsively, yet I knew well enough it was his way simply to speak when a thought was ready.

"Not just like that," he said. "I’d like to. I love you, you know." He looked at me sideways, teasingly.

"Aren’t you supposed to cast a glamour on us and offer me a binding charm?" The old romantic cliché.

"I will if you want."

"No. But we’re only twenty-four."

He took my hand and kissed my palm. "I know what I want."

"Is it that simple?" I asked. His work on my hand was growing more sensual and distracting.

"It is for me. Not for you. I hope you’ll think about it and answer me later."

"Okay."

When I took my hand back, there was a wooden ring on my finger, carved in the shape of a hippogriff’s head.

"Oh–" I laughed. "I don’t know that spell. Is it charmed?" He grinned. He already knew my answer.

"Just a few protective charms. And a love charm. I hope I’ll get to give you a better one later."

+++++

We were married in the field outside my house, with Thalia and Sandrine as bridesmaids. Guy’s father and brother stood up with him. He looked terribly handsome in dark blue velvet dress robes that set off the blond of his hair. Guy had wanted us to enter on Protecteur and Filleambre, but I felt it was too showy, and I didn’t want to rumple my traditional fancy black robes. They had black crocheted lace at the collar and cuffs, and a silver clasp that had been my mother’s.

All three hippogriffs stood with us, however, bedecked with flowers, and they behaved very well, although Filleambre scratched for worms during the vows.

"Do you want your father to give you away?" Guy had asked me during the planning phase.

"He already threw me away," I answered, affecting a light tone over my bitterness. The truth was, I had grown more and more distant from my father in my adulthood. He hardly knew Guy, and had hardly tried to. He was a guest at our wedding, but only a guest. Yet later that night when I opened his gift to us and read the card, I wept.

"I wish your mother could see you grown into womanhood," it said. "You are everything she dreamed you would be." It was many more years before I could understand how he had been destroyed by her death and forgive him for protecting himself from loving me in its wake.

The gift was a beautiful inlaid box imbued with protective charms. The wood was from our vineyard. My mother must have made it when I was small; he had saved it all these years, and inside were her tools.

+++++

 

I had Guy for ten years. In that decade we refined the best ways of training hippogriffs without dominating them. I liked to do the work and think it out, but Guy wanted to publicize it. We both loved hippogriffs and wanted them to have the best possible lives by disseminating our methods.

In our fifth year together Guy’s parents and my father lent us money and we opened a stable in a posh wizarding community outside Paris, offering lessons. I wrote some articles for scholarly journals. We called our method the Unroped technique because the name was catchy and emphasized the use of trust and bonding rather than physical restraint. Breeders had long understood the use of imprinting — being the first object seen by the hatchling — and we enlarged on it further by sleeping with the fledglings and mimicking the teaching methods of wild mother and father hippogriffs.

Our methods were unusual enough to garner some press. A picture in _Le monde de la magie_ showed me feeding a newborn griff raw chopped meat from my mouth. Another short article in the British magazine _Witch Weekly_ was devoted mainly to photos of my good-looking husband and our good-looking hippogriffs.

Guy thought we ought to write a popular book. I wrote it — he cooked all the meals on my writing days and brought me endless cups of coffee and bars of chocolate --and we edited together. To our surprise and that of the publisher, _Les chucotements des hippogriffes_ became a bestseller.

I had never wanted to be a semi-famous person. It embarrassed me and I was eager to see the fuss die down. I did not like people showing up at the stables to look at me and get their book signed.

It was his idea to start a foundation. Guy loved to get people together and was a natural leader. It was a little group, composed of friends and avid riders from our stables, dedicated to rehabilitating abused and ill hippogriffs and disseminating more humane methods of training griffs in general. Guy’s dad, although a Muggle, agreed to be on the Board of Directors -- a fancy name for the bunch of folks who had sat around the kitchen table planning the thing.

Le sauvetage du hippogriffe launched to favorable notice and immediately began to garner support and contributions. Guy and his dad enjoyed it hugely, planning fundraisers like hippogriff shows and invisible tours of Muggle Paris and parties at the stables, dictated by their expansive natures and boundless energy. I did my best to duck the public aspects of the work, but Guy thrived on it. He was that most unusual public figure who neither seeks nor shuns publicity but uses it as a tool in the service of his clear purpose. The foundation was intentionally small, with modest goals, so it would not overwhelm our direct work with the griffs. As Guy did more foundation work, I took on more of the day-to-day management of the stables. We had a well-balanced life. We were so happy we never thought of happiness. We were passionate and well-suited to our work and knew the pleasure of being a team.

In the eleventh year of our marriage, Guy was killed by a hippogriff.


	5. England

Dylan Thomas said, "After the first death, there is no other." Fool that I was, after my mother’s death I thought that meant your heart could only break once.

I had misunderstood. Every death is the first death again, and worse. When Guy died it was as if a wound partially healed was ripped open, tearing the already tormented and sensitized flesh. Guy had felt like a promise to me; now the promise was revealed as a lie. I saw that there is no limit to the pain life can inflict.

We had six hippogriffs in our facility and I had been caring for them with the help of a pair of teenage witches from town. Now, of course, their parents would no longer allow them to come. The work was physically demanding and by working harder than necessary I endeavored to save the little flame of spirit that still burned in me. It was like the healing spell Gelos, performed when severe injuries cause dangerous swelling in the nervous system. The spell lowers the body temperature almost to the level of death and holds it there while other healing spells are applied. That is how I worked — from dawn to deep night, falling into an exhausted sleep to rise and work again, hopeless yet driven to preserve myself until something should lift.

Le ministere des betes magiques came and took the hippogriff, Castor, and put him down. Guy had always said that we could not save them all, that some griffs were too damaged and that people’s safety came first. I am ashamed that I did not watch him go or say goodbye.

I ignored the business side of Le sauvetage de hippogriffe for many months, and with the sensational press given to Guy’s death, I expected support to dry up. Just the contrary --- owls of support, many with contributions enclosed, poured in. Wizards and witches were moved by Guy’s death in the service of these beautiful and intelligent creatures.

Perhaps the surcease I hoped for was already on the way, unfelt, for when I went into the office and saw the huge basket of unopened owls, my spirit rose a bit and I began to plan for the future.

It was like coming out of a high fever, the first day when one goes to the mirror and sees oneself changed — pale hollow face, cracked lips, hallucinations still shadowing one’s eyes. I didn’t know myself. In time what I found was this: I no longer wanted dreams. I wanted to live and I wanted useful work. I expected there was a future for me but I would not think on it; I would confine myself to the pleasures and trials of the day and leave hope aside.

I could not continue with the Foundation, but now I cared about its survival. I called a meeting of the Board of Directors and explained that I couldn’t run it. Would anyone like to take over the Foundation, if not the rehabilitation work? Guy’s father wanted the post badly and I wanted him to have it, for Guy’s sake, but as a Muggle he hadn’t any credibility in the wizarding world. It was not the first time he had encountered prejudice in following his son. Luckily a different board member would take the job. I gratefully turned it over to her.

When all this was well begun, I went to my desk and took out a letter I had received the year before. The paper was thick and bore the heading, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" in engraved script.

Dear Mme Desrosiers:

First of all, please allow me to express my admiration for your book. I have had the acquaintance of several hippogriffs in my long life, but never understood them so well as I did after reading _Hippogriff Whispering._ You and your husband have gone far to increase the store of compassion and understanding in this weary world.

Secondly, I am writing to you as Headmaster of Hogwarts in hopes that you may be able to recommend an able riding instructor to us. Some Hogwarts parents have long pressed me to initiate a riding program and after reading your book I am considering the idea seriously. I would like this program to be based on your Unroped method; I believe this would deepen the students’ understanding of magical creatures in general and hippogriffs in particular, making the endeavor more than a simply athletic one.

This person would work closely with our Care of Magical Creatures professor and would be considered an instructor. Hogwarts offers a generous package of compensation and benefits and I would be happy to arrange a tutorial in pedagogical method for any candidate who is otherwise qualified.

If you are aware of someone who might be interested in a staff position at Hogwarts and is knowledgeable in your approach, would you be so kind as to refer him or her to me? I would be most grateful to discuss the position with anyone you could recommend.

Yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster

At the time, a year before, I had written back to the Headmaster, thanking him for his kind words but apologizing that we had not trained anyone in our techniques, nor did we yet have acquaintance with anyone using them. As I sat now with the letter in my lap, I wondered if running to England would save me or only postpone some inevitable hell I had yet to endure. Decisiveness has always been one of my strengths. I dipped my quill and composed an answer.

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore:

I wonder if you might consider me for the position of riding instructor mentioned in your previous letter. My circumstances have changed and I would like to remove myself from the daily operations of Le Sauvetage de Hippogriffe. I have developed a curriculum that I believe would suit your needs and I am eager to try it out.

I am available at your earliest convenience.

Yours truly,

Jehane Desrosiers

That wasn’t strictly true about the curriculum, but I was certain I could cobble one together in an instant, and that the work would evolve between the young people and the hippogriffs, not through a syllabus.

Calling my owl, Sophia, from her cote in the barn with a long whistle, I quickly rolled the scroll before I could waver and attached it to her leg. I gave her a scratch on the head for luck — hers and mine — and sent her off.

She was back in two days, two of the most restful days I had spent since Guy’s death. I have always been better when taking action, and, having initiated something, I could wait in peace.

Dear Mme Desrosiers:

Please allow me to offer my condolences on your loss. Your husband’s death has deprived the world of a great and gentle soul.

I hope that you will find Hogwarts a restful and restorative home as well as an appropriate venue to carry on your and your husband’s work. We are delighted that you will be able to join us and await your arrival as soon as possible. Although the fall term has begun and you will of course need some time to settle in and develop your program, I feel that student and parent interest is great enough that your classes will fill whenever they are offered.

I have instructed Professor Hagrid to contact you separately and make whatever arrangements will be necessary for the care of the animals you will bring with you. I leave it up to you to procure the necessary additional hippogriffs with his assistance.

Yours most fondly,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster

Dumbledore’s kind recognition that I needed a home as much as a job opened a wellspring of tears and I put my head down on the desk for a good cry. The blotter got rather wet and snotty and I must have frightened Sophia, for she attempted to pull my head up and got her claws caught in my snarls.

"Hey hey, girl," I said, untangling her and digging in the desk drawer for a treat. "It’s okay." I gave her a piece of Flake bar, a Muggle candy I particularly like, while I wiped my nose. "We’re going to England, Sophia." She regarded me gravely and nibbled her chocolate.

I took Protecteur, my old love, and Serrebrune and Filleambre, and found homes for the others. Most of them just needed loving kindness and were easy to adopt out. The foundation was tucked away, the griffs had been planned for, and it only remained to pack up my house and book house and stables with a real estate agent.

+++++

I sat on the stone floor of our kitchen, packing boxes. Knowing that I would have a suite of rooms at Hogwarts and not an entire house, I was endeavoring to put as much as possible into the charity box, but I was slowed by the need to remember each item, how I associated it with Guy, and to consider how I was discarding my old life with him.

The day was warm, early September, and I had left the doors open to air out the house. Strangely, I found myself remembering my old headmistress, Madame Maxime, and the time she had come to my room after my mother died.

I looked up to find that someone large was indeed standing in the doorway. A resounding knock shook the frame, followed by a quite unnecessary booming, "Knock, knock, there."

"Come in." I stood and dusted off my pants. The man who entered was about twice the normal width and about ten feet tall. As my farmhouse kitchen ceiling was only seven feet, he kneeled. A massive bushy black beard covered the lower half of his face, spreading out over his chest, and above the beard shiny red cheeks compressed in a friendly grin.

"Rubeus Hagrid at your service. Come from Hogwarts to see about them hippogriffs, and anything else you might be needin’ for yer move." So this was the Care of Magical Creatures professor from Hogwarts.

"I’m Jehane D-Desrosiers." I stuttered, flustered by the need to speak English without warning and by his size. I looked around for something he could safely sit on. "May I offer you a — chair? Mr. Hagrid?"

"Pleased ter meet yer," he said, burying my hand in his enormous one. "And please call me Hagrid. Everyone does." He plopped down on the stone flags of the kitchen, legs outstretched.

"Then I hope you will call me Jehane. But surely you didn’t need to come all this way? I’ve hired someone to move my things, and I thought I’d arrange a Portkey for myself and the hippogriffs." Oh dear, I was sounding rather stiff and ungrateful, and I surely didn’t mean that. It must be the English. But Hagrid seemed oblivious.

"Naw, it’s no trouble at all ter stop by," he said. "I thought I’d pop over to Beauxbatons, visit a friend, then take the train here. Consider me yer unofficial welcoming committee. Yeh must have a few questions I can get to before yeh arrive."

"My thanks. It would be helpful for us to talk about care of the hippogriffs. May I offer you a cup of tea?"

"That’d be right kind of yeh. And speakin’ of the hippogriffs —" His eyes sparkled with eagerness. "I’d love teh see them if yeh have the time."

Ah ha -- here was the crux of the matter, and I liked him the more for it. "I’d love to show them off to you," I said.

Hagrid did not seem offended when I served him the whole pot of tea in a mixing bowl, but unconcernedly shoveled sugar into it with the scoop from the bin. I made a second pot for myself and summoned a dozen chocolate croissants from the wizard baker. When they came in the window, I ate one and he had the rest, and we headed down to the stables, pleased and sated.

"Yeh can’t beat the French for a good bit o’ pastry," he said. "I allus look forwart to it."

Protecteur and Serrebrune were standing, neck over neck, under a large tree in the pasture, and flicked their tails lazily at us as we approached. Filleambre came running up to the fence but shied when she got close enough to judge Hagrid’s size. He leaned on the rail and called her with a breathy whistle. She stood at a distance, unsure, her clawed feet dancing as attraction and fear fought each other.

"Maybe if I get in with her —" I hopped the fence and gave her special whistle, three short pips. She came up to me but kept one caramel eye suspiciously on Hagrid.

"Come on, girl," I cooed. "This is our friend Hagrid. Come over here and see." With my hand on her neck, I walked her toward the fence. We stopped a few feet away; I hoped she might go to him on her own.

"D’ye mind if I give ‘er a treat, like?" asked Hagrid.

"No, of course, go ahead."

He reached into his voluminous gray overcoat and withdrew a live mole, which he held up, squirming, by its back legs. Moles are a special delicacy to hippogriffs, as they are tasty — I suppose, as I’ve not tried one -- and hard to get.

"’Ere yeh go, pretty girl. Take a little sommat from yer Uncle Hagrid, now," he cooed.

That considerate gesture seemed to decide her. She snatched the mole from his hand and swallowed it in one convulsive gulp. Hagrid took the opportunity to bow low. Filleambre rewarded him by sinking to her knees and offering her head to be scratched.

"’At’s a girl," he murmured. "Yeh know ol’ Hagrid means yeh no harm, a’righ’?"

Watching him stroke and soothe her so naturally, his eyes filled with admiration, I knew I had at least one friend already at Hogwarts and I felt my attachment to my old life ebb a little more, replaced by eagerness to get on with the new.

We agreed that I would arrange a two-way Portkey for the following week. Hagrid would come to me on a Friday and we would bring the animals over the next day. I gave him a list of supplies needed and after a pleasant dinner in town we apparated to the train station and I saw him off.


	6. Hagrid's Hut

Chapter 6 – Hagrid’s Hut

We Portkeyed directly to the paddock. Hagrid kept one hand on Filleambre’s neck and one on Serrebrune’s while I led Protecteur; we held the Portkey, a dirty shoelace, between us.

“I wouldna believed it,” he said, relieved. “I thought they’d bolt at the last.”

“As long as you’re touching them they feel secure. You don’t need a hood, most of the time.”

“W’out even a collar. ‘S lovely, but I woudna believed it.”

I looked around. Strange to have come to live here without so much as a preliminary visit. A nice big paddock with soft, turned earth. On the far side, a freshly fenced green pasture. A wooden hut with a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney – that must be Hagrid’s – and up the hill –

“Oh, Hagrid, is that the castle? It’s huge. I saw pictures, but – I didn’t realize --”

“Yeh like it? Ever’body says tha’ the first time. A fine example of the period, too, they say.”

“It makes Beauxbatons look like a cottage. I’ll never find my way about.”

“Ever’body says tha’ too. Yeh’ll get the knack.”

On the other side of Hagrid’s hut loomed a large wood, so dense and old that I couldn’t see past the first ring of trees. I wondered if a candy house with a dark witch was hidden in its depths.

The hippogriffs moved away from us and began scratching in the dirt for bugs.

“Now, would yeh like to come up to the castle and meet the Headmaster, or –“ Hagrid noted my apprehensive expression. “I bet yeh’d rather come in teh my place for a cup a tea.”

“Yes, please.”

Inside Hagrid’s hut, I felt as if I had shrunk to fairy size. Four enormous chairs, their seats at level with my ribs, surrounded a scrubbed wooden table of similar scale. In the far corner was a sturdy bed covered with a patchwork quilt – the large stitches suggested that Hagrid had done the quilting himself – and on that same wall, a fireplace I could have fit entirely inside. Some great tree of the Forbidden Forest had been transformed into a neat stack of logs.

“Make yerself comfortable,” Hagrid said. “I’ll get us some tea and a nice bit o’ sommat to eat.”

I boosted myself onto a chair using the rung as a step and sat with my legs hanging off the edge. Hagrid brought a Brown Betty teapot like a washtub and a plate of biscuits.

“Rock cakes!” he proclaimed. “Sort o’ my specialty.” And then pinching it between his finger and thumb like a thimble, he set a china teacup before me.

“This was my da’s mum’s,” he said shyly. “Fer special guests.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I couldn’t have wanted a nicer welcome.” And with the first sips of tea I felt myself unwind and send tendrils of happy expectation into my new life.

Fortified with several cups, I was ready to run the gauntlet of whatever staff and students we might encounter on our way to Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. We stabled the hippogriffs in their new digs, and to protect them from curious visitors in our absence, I warded the stables. A small tidying spell sufficed to get my clothes and hair in order, or in as much order as they ever get.

Indeed, I found myself the object of many curious looks and whispered conversations in which the word “hippogriffs” could be discerned. It seemed that the riding program had been well promoted.

These English children thronging the corridors on their way to lunch seemed different from my schoolmates at Beauxbatons. Opener, less calculating, or was it only that now I was an adult and could see how tender and defenseless children really were? Harry Potter, who had defeated Voldemort just two years before, had trod these halls not long since. He can’t ever have been so very young as these chattering English roses brushing by me with their book bags.

The Headmaster’s office turned out to be hidden on an obscure corridor, protected by a password and up a spiral staircase. I wondered why he made himself so scarce. Madame Maxime had liked to be in the thick of the student throng like a general, giving advice and direction at all times.

“’Ere she is, Headmaster, safe and sound and none the worse fer wear.” Hagrid spoke as if he were delivering a precious package of which he had been put in charge.

“Ah, Madame Desrosiers. So good to have you with us.”

Professor Dumbledore looked just like his picture on the Chocolate Frog card, down to the old-fashioned pointed hat and snowy beard. He clasped my hand in both of his and gazed benignly at me through his half-moon spectacles. He was, however, performing a thorough and penetrating examination of me. He didn’t use Legilimancy; it was not magic but extreme astuteness, and he did it without diluting the genuine warmth of his greeting.

“Your trip was comfortable, I hope? And you are not too fatigued?” he asked, waving his hand so that two small cups and one large bucket of tea appeared on his desk along with a plate of cakes.

“No, thank you, it was easy,” I answered. “And the hippogriffs seem quite at home already. You’ve made a beautiful place for them. Thank you.”

“I hope this will be a beautiful place for you, as well.” And this time there was no assessment going on, just goodwill that opened my heart like a flower.

“Please, have some tea,” he said. “You too, Hagrid. And try these cakes. They are my own invention.”

“Real cream,” I sighed.

“Do you like cream?” said Dumbledore. “I do, too. If there’s any left in that pitcher when we are done, I might just drink it.”

The cakes were balls of flaky pastry with a glaze on the top. Inside was a pink cream. At first I could not identify the fragrant, delicate flavor, then –

“Roses!”

“Yes,” He looked pleased. “The trick isn’t in the composition. It’s in finding fresh roses in October.”

He inclined his head. “In your honor, Madame Desrosiers.”

+++++

After a few days Hagrid and I let the hippogriffs – my three, and three Hagrid had procured for me – mix for the first time in the paddock, chatting while we watched for trouble. He had trained two griffs in the traditional way and wanted to buy a fledgling to train Unroped.

“I sure wish I cud breed ‘em here,” he said.

“You don’t have the room,” I answered. “Or the staff.”

“Oo, I know that,” he replied. “I’m lucky if nawt complain when I raise one. Just – wouldn’t tha’ be sweet, wi’ the little fledglings rompin’ in the grass, tearin’ up their kill. Watchin ‘em from the very beginnin wi’ their mums.”

I leaned on the fence, watching Protector groom Serrebrune. After the last desperate year alone, I found Hagrid’s simple sweetness as relaxing as a warm bath.

From the vantage point of the hut I could see the path to the gates and the lanes that led away, over the dull autumn grounds, toward Hogsmeade and into the open country. A black shape like a soot, changing as its robes flapped in the wind, moved away from the gate and toward the moors.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Professor Snape,” answered Hagrid. “’Ee’s a great walker, that one. I see him come by that way, oh, two-three times a week.”

“Why have I not met him?”

“”Ee probably didn’t want to meet you. ‘Ee’s not what ye’d call social, I’d say. Ye’ve probably seen ‘im at dinner in the Great Hall, though.”

“Oh, right, I have,” I answered.

“’Ee’s not exactly outgoing. But ‘ee’s a great man, a brilliant man, and ‘ee was a hero in the war.”

+++++

That night at dinner I surveyed the room for Professor Snape. I found him at the head table between Professors McGonagall and Lupin. The Headmaster caught my eye and smiled genially. I smiled back, embarrassed.

When I peeked again, Professor Snape was scowling at his plate, tucking single-mindedly into his food and ignoring his table mates. His long, straight, black hair hung forward in wings, partially covering his pale face, although his hooked nose protruded. Despite the fact that he was packing away his dinner with indelicate haste, he handled his cutlery gracefully. I turned to Madam Hooch to ask about the composition of the season’s quidditch teams and their relative chances. It was an exhaustive discussion, and when I glanced up again, Professor Snape was gone.

After that I noticed him every day. At dinner, of course, and striding toward the Hogwarts gates, robes flying, and as a black speck cresting the hills. His was a lonely, but compelling, figure.

The week was filled with arranging the stables, acquainting the hippogriffs with their surroundings and their new fellows and, of course, exercising and grooming them. Hagrid had been helpful in securing a regular supply of small beasts for their feed.

I had designed my classes to have four in each group, two classes of younger and two of older children to meet twice a week, and Headmaster Dumbledore had been correct in his predictions; they had filled immediately. All of the students were completely new to hippogriff riding -- a blessing, as I would not have to disabuse them of misconceptions or break their bad habits. We were due to start the following Monday, and I spent some time going over the class lists with Hagrid, learning a little about each child.

I looked forward to teaching. I had given lessons at our stables, and I didn’t expect to have discipline problems as those teaching required courses did. I have never found young people difficult. I must have left some part of me behind when my mother died, for I remember very well what it is like to be fifteen. Teenagers seem normal and comprehensible to me, and they respond to my ease.

I got my first look at Professor Snape in action one day just before dinner. The noise of a hundred piping childish voices in the corridor outside the Great Hall was naturally wearing on the nerves and I was feeling a bit irritable. I caught a glimpse of him ahead of me, striding impatiently along as if taking meals was an imposition barely to be tolerated. He bore a stack of parchments under his arm, and I wondered if he planned to read during dinner. That would certainly be rude, and I'd only seen others do it at breakfast, but perhaps in character for him. A second year, calling backward to a friend, neglected to watch and wandered into Snape, knocking the parchments to the ground and treading on Snape's robe. When he turned to see what had happened, he froze like a mouse under the eyes of a snake.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing, clumsy idiot?" Snape snarled.

"Sorry, sir, so sorry," squeaked the boy. He bent to gather up the parchments.

"I'll thank you to keep away from those," hissed Snape. "Before you do further damage. If you can't control your own body you don't belong in a school of wizardry."

"Sorry --" said the hapless fellow again.

"Get out of my sight and stop your pathetic apologizing." Snape was nearly shouting now. The bent heads and averted eyes around them told me that this was not an unfamiliar scene and that others had learned to keep out of the line of spellfire. The boy scuttled off.

Snape certainly seemed a nasty piece of work. "Brilliant man and a war hero," indeed. I considered the long solitary walks and the silence at dinner and how all the staff seemed to respect the bubble around him. What was his trouble?

Then I thought, of course -- he is spoiled. Defensive and angry and superior and afraid of people, for sure; he’d been deeply wounded early on, anyone could see. But did they see how their tiptoeing around and deferring to his vicious tongue had made him meaner and more alone? He got away with acting like a bastard and no one called him to account, as if no one cared enough. Like Serrebrune when she’d first come to me — no good to herself or anyone else because no one had cared to make her behave.

He needed a spanking; the thought was so ludicrous I smiled.

+++++

Like institutions everywhere, Hogwarts conspired to have its staff meeting at the deadliest possible time, four o’clock on Friday. As I expected there to be some sort of official welcome, I made a special effort with my appearance, which consisted of several spells one on top of each other for my hair, which left it glossy and braided and woven with small green ribbons. Experience had taught me that this would last about the duration of one staff meeting, then spring loose like a Christmas cracker. I’ve never had any luck either with make-up or glamours, so I contented myself with a little pink lip gloss and clean jeans under my better gray robes.

I don’t like being looked over, even in a friendly way, so I made a point of arriving in the Quidditch room – so called, I suppose, because of the sports memorabilia displayed in cases all round – before anyone else and securing a seat in the corner. Madam Sprout was the next to arrive.

“Now, are your rooms comfortable, dear?” she fussed. “Because if they are not, just go ahead and arrange them to your liking. And the house-elves are to be used, so get them to work cleaning and straightening. Is there anything you need in the way of furnishings?”

“No, thank you. You’re very kind. Actually I had so much from my old house, it was a problem to winnow it down.” I looked around for a diversion. “Are these team photos arranged chronologically?”

“Yes.” She led me from my chair to one of the cases. “This one here, that Seeker in the front, that’s Harry Potter.” A skinny boy with round glasses grinned bashfully from the photo and fiddled with the handle of his broom.

“Gosh, he doesn’t look like the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Now look here.” She brought me to the next case. “Eighteen years earlier. Look at the Seeker in this picture.” Another lanky boy with thick, unruly hair.

“Harry’s father?” I guessed.

“Yes,” she sighed happily. “There’s such continuity, such tradition at Hogwarts. He was an adorable boy.”

Something about her tone gave me a clue. “Was Harry’s father in your year?” I asked.

“A year ahead.” She gave me a conspiratorial look. “I had quite an eye for boys, and James Potter was a dream. Smart, and funny. Full of mischief.”

“So you must have been partial to Harry as well.”

“No,” she answered. “Not more than any other child. You see, James was – life was a light thing to him. He took delight. But Harry – he’d seen so much already. Complicated, and closed. Except to those two buddies of his.”

“Yes, Hermione and Ron.” Poor Harry Potter, whose life had been the subject of so much interest and speculation. Even in Europe we knew about his school friends, his Quidditch record and his history. Everyone that read _Wizards_ in the checkout line had seen pictures of him, his dead parents and his friends at school. Wherever he was, supposedly working as an Auror for the Ministry of Magic, I wished him joy of his private life at last.

I returned my attention to the case. On the shelf above James Potter were an engraved dueling cup and a team photo. I immediately recognized the slender figure in whites, wand vertical in the _en garde_ position, left hand lightly on his hip. As I watched, he raised his chin slightly, challenging.

“Madam Sprout, is that Professor Snape?”

“Oh yes, he was in that year also. I’m afraid James teased him rather a lot.”

“Was he a good dueler?”

“Yes. Very agile and fast. He won a lot of matches, but –“ She lowered her voice. “He wasn’t sportsmanlike, I’m afraid -- so intense about everything, easily offended. You know, it makes people want to pick on you.”

“And James did.”

“Yes, and it didn’t help that James and his clique were so popular.”

“Mm.” I sympathized with this teenaged Snape, never having been one of the popular crowd myself, at school.

“It was a lovely sport, though,” she mused. “And not that dangerous. I’m sorry the Commission on School Sports banned it.”

Several other staff entered at that moment, and I retreated to my corner chair. Remus Lupin gave me a friendly smile and Madam Hooch a sporty fist-pumping gesture. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape came in together, finishing a conversation. Snape threw himself into a chair to the Headmaster’s right, crossing his ankles under the table and fixing his eyes grimly on its edge.

“Ah. Madame Desrosiers,” said Dumbledore genially. “Welcome. There is room here at the table. Do come up. I promise you, we are not so fearsome as we look.” He took the edge off his teasing with a wink.

Eek. I got up and crossed the room under examination after all, settling myself in the farthest chair from the head.

“Have you all had a chance to meet Madame Desrosiers? Severus?”

He glanced up and gave me a curt nod. “How do you do,” he said dismissively.

“Madame Desrosiers is the author of _Hippogriff Whispering_ , as you probably know, and a scholar of hippogriff-human relations,” Dumbledore went on. “And I expect you have seen the facilities we have put in place for her riding program.”

“Private lessons for faculty, I hope,” declared Madam Hooch. I grinned at her and nodded, noticing a subtle shiver from Professor McGonagall at the thought.

“We feel very lucky to have you, my dear,” said Dumbledore. “And we hope you will be happy with us.” There was murmured assent from around the table, but I noticed that Professor Snape did not join in.

The meeting ground on through the usual material – updates, notices, requests, proposals – and since I hadn’t been around at the inception of most of these issues and wouldn’t need to know about some others, I examined my new colleagues. In truth, I was looking for my new friend, but the female pickings seemed thin -- McGonagall – too serious, and old enough to be my mother; Sprout – too motherly; Hooch – no rapport and that weird Trelawney creature at the corner, with those scarves and bracelets -- out of the question. It seemed that Lupin was my best bet for companionship besides Hagrid, but I had hoped for a girlfriend.

My eyes wandered to Snape. He sat looking at me with the face of a tired king, eyes a fathomless black, unreadable, and as I returned his gaze, I fell through a door, opening into another door, opening into another, deeper and deeper into a world alive with meaning. Then I knew:

 _I was meant for him._

In the next moment my heart raced, as if I had walked too close to a cliff and felt it crumble. What an insane idea, calculated to spoil every chance of happiness in my new life. For the rest of the meeting I stared at my clasped hands, then blessedly, Lupin came over to invite me out for a butterbeer. I focused on him and got out of the room as quickly as possible.

 

 

 

 

Notes

“The face of a tired king.” I stole this from Pat Conroy. I wish I’d thought of it myself, but it belongs here and I didn’t think he’d mind.


	7. Chapter 7 - Professor Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehane advances her relationship with Professor Severus Snape.

Chapter 7 – Professor Snape

 

 _I was meant for him._ It was ridiculous, yet the idea persisted. And why in that way? Why wasn’t he meant for me? From wherever it had arisen, though, the answer stayed with me, as clear as it was inexplicable. Guy had been for me, and I was for Professor Snape.

Now that I wished not to see Severus Snape he appeared to be everywhere. Did he have to eat every single meal in the Great Hall? Why was he always walking around outside? Didn’t he have classes to teach? And yet, of course, I longed to see him and my stomach lurched whenever I did.

Nor did he look at me again. I wondered if he had even done so at that dizzying moment when I – what? Fell in love? Became obsessed? Maybe I had misperceived.

As I got to know the staff, their friendships and alliances, I saw that Snape stood alone except for his relationship – entirely professional – with Dumbledore. He sought no one out, sat either where expected or as far from the other staff as possible, made no conversation and repelled others’ occasional attempts to engage him. My impression of his apartness deepened. He was like one of those charmed spherical boxes, slippery black and iridescent, that have no opening.

For a thirty-five year old woman, I had very little experience of love. I had knowledge and understanding of only one thing, my marriage to Guy, and it didn’t generalize to anything else. I didn’t know about infatuation either, but if this was infatuation I expected I could wait it out. Meanwhile, I began teaching, and the engrossing process of suiting lessons to personalities provided a respite from my mysterious crush.

Sometimes out in the paddock on the weekends, I looked up to see him heading out toward the moors, and I wondered again about that moment when I had seen into him, or thought I had.

One evening I sat on the pasture fence, feeling melancholy, comforting myself with my arm around Protecteur’s neck. Twilight was about to become night, leaving only dark shapes and the yellow lights of the castle. Suddenly, Professor Snape appeared on the path from the Forbidden Forest, his robes blowing. He passed with a swish and was gone.

After several weeks I began to be accustomed to the mix of longing, excitement, sadness and indigestion surrounding the thought or presence of Professor Snape. I tried to think of it as a chronic condition requiring adaptation but not action.

Then the thing happened again. It was the night of the Halloween feast, my first big Hogwarts function, and I was as excited as the students. Two of my students, Tilda Squires and Miriam Rosen, eagerly filled me in on the protocol.

“You want to look your best,” said Tilda. “But it’s a feast, not a dance, so you want to look casual.”

“Not a fancy dress or anything,” said Miriam. “Just the everyday robes that look best on you.”

“And do some work on your hair, but don’t make it look like you did a lot of work,” said Tilda.

“Okay, that was directly aimed at me, wasn’t it?” I said, provoking fits of giggles.

“Well,” said Tilda diplomatically. “It’s beautiful hair, but usually you have other things on your mind so you don’t do much with it.”

“This _is_ what I do with it,” I said, pointing to the bushy ponytail sticking off the back of my head. Tilda and Miriam looked at each other and giggled again. Beautiful Tilda with the thick, straight mane of wheat colored hair and the high cheekbones, and dark-eyed Miriam, only fourteen and already possessing the breasts and hips of a goddess. What did they know? But they made me smile with their earnest advice, and I promised that I would take some extra care with my hair.

I couldn’t help thinking that night, as I worked the anti-frizz and ringletting spells overlaid with stasis and a subtle spell of my own invention that produced shiny glints and the scent of lilacs, thunderstorms and vanilla, that Professor Snape would be at the feast. If my hair would behave itself – then what? Maybe he’d like it? Maybe he’d like it so much that he’d abandon his solitary state and pursue me? Not likely, but still, I did think of him.

As I joined the throngs of students streaming through the corridors toward the Great Hall, I wasn’t thinking of love, but of how lovely it was to be part of this tradition, to have my own seat at the head table and to look forward to Hagrid’s conversation.

The decorations were breathtaking. At one side of the Great Hall stood an enormous tree, several spans around and stories high, branches spread to roof the entire room. Only a few leaves clung to them, and through the black latticework shone the constellations of the autumn sky. Two ravens in the lower limbs added their raucous cries to the excited chatter of the students, and dry leaves skittered on the floor in an illusory autumn wind. Even the tables had been transfigured into products of the forest, each balanced on four sturdy trunks and set with tableware in the shapes of acorns and twigs. Like everyone else, I stopped as I entered to exclaim and appreciate each decoration.

Professor Snape stood nearly hidden in the shadows under the great trunk. He watched the merriment with a grim expression. Then he turned, our eyes met, and it was as if he had spoken a hundred pleas, demands and explanations directly into my ear, so loudly that I jerked my head back. For a long moment, we froze.

“Madame Desrosiers, do I have dirt on my nose?” he said. “You are staring at me.” Without waiting for an answer, he spied some student infraction and launched himself into the fray.

He didn’t know. It was there but he didn’t know.

The feast was delicious – pumpkin soup served in real pumpkins, crispy pork or chicken and pan-roasted autumn vegetables, French beans, acorn squash with maple syrup, apple tart, and for the adults, a full-bodied Bordeaux. Hagrid – who was a wonderful gossip if you got him going – gave me useful rundowns on the wizarding antecedents of some students as well as history of the staff.

“You said that Professor Snape was some sort of hero in the war,” I asked casually. “What did he do, exactly?”

Hagrid’s face lit up. “’Ee was a double agent, thass what,” he said. “You-know-who thought ‘ee ‘ad planted ‘im at Hogwarts ter give ‘im information. A spy, see? But ‘ee was working fer Dumbledore all the time. ‘Invaluable ter the cause,’ thass what Dumbledore told the _Daily Prophet_ when it was all over. An’ the worst part of it was, everbody ‘ere suspected ‘im all the time. Of bein’ a Death Eater still, see?”

“Mmm,” I said. “So they mistrusted him, all during the struggle with Voldemort?”

“Thass righ’”

“Suited him, though, don’t you think?” I asked.

Hagrid looked meditative. “Yeh, I guess it did.”

Then I thought I’d better change the subject, and we talked of our chances of adding a young hippogriff to the stable come summer.

That night as I prepared for bed I pondered what I might make of my new understanding. Was it something practical or magical? It didn’t feel like magic. Or rather, it did -- not human magic, not something worked, but something deeper, like life itself. Did I even want to have him? It was sure to bring heartache, and I was just getting myself on an even keel.

Oh, but who was I kidding. I thought about him every hour, fully aware that I didn’t know who he was and wouldn’t be at peace until I did. Even if it turned out badly, I had to try. And what if that strange understanding was beneficent, and might turn out well for both? If we were meant to find each other I’d have to get us into more contact, whether he welcomed me or not.

Early Saturday morning there was frost on the pumpkins behind Hagrid’s hut and the air was filled with the scent of leaf mold. Hagrid’s irregular snores shook the window panes; I promised myself to stop and beg a cup of tea if he was up when I returned.

The stable, too, seemed sleepy. Filleambre, also snoring, rested her head on her crossed forelegs, but Protecteur was awake and gave a welcoming cry as I entered.

“Good boy. You get the first ride for being an early riser,” I said. He scratched eagerly at the stall door. I brought him outside to the pasture where he could get a running start into the air, then climbed the ladder to the platform Hagrid had constructed on the stable roof.

There, I bowed. These mannerisms, so long a part of our friendship, had acquired a rich subtext, and I gave him a flirtatious knowing look – “Do I still have to ask?” A hippogriff’s face is unexpressive; all must be communicated by posture. Protecteur kneeled for me, but I imagined something of a teasing mock-forbearance in the way his head was cocked and one foreleg came down before the other.

As I seated myself, I saw Snape just passing through the gates. He was heading toward the moors. He must be an insomniac; it was barely six a.m. Well, I was up at 5:56 to observe him. So.

We made a long straight run over the open land, keeping deliberately to the south. I didn’t want him to look up and see us and felt certain I could find him again in the bare landscape. I gave Protecteur his head, leaning down to enjoy the strumming of his wing beats through my legs. He flew for a long while then executed some lazy circles, banking to left and right. I saw that he was ready for a rest; I was ready to look for Snape.

We followed his trajectory from the gates. He’d gone surprisingly far; I judged he was four miles along when we spotted him. I brought us down farther along his path, keeping Protecteur with me for moral support.

I had a sudden brainstorm. I couldn’t put a spell on Snape; without permission it was rude and what is more, he would certainly know. But I might try one on myself. I whipped my wand from my robes and uttered a quick Repirire, a mild revealing spell. It made my skin cold, as if the wind were blowing through a thin sweater. I was just tucking my wand away when he appeared down the path. I buried my face in Protecteur’s feathered neck for a moment. He pushed me away with his beak.

Closer. Certainly he would have to acknowledge that I was standing here.

He had very longs legs and he walked as if the hounds of Hell were following. I drew in a breath to speak, and then he stopped.

“Madame Desrosiers.”

“Hello.” I smiled, and found that despite my terrible nervousness, I was happy as well.

He gave me a long, appraising stare down his nose, eyes slitted, and I had a good idea of the terror he must elicit in the Potions classroom. I felt like a bug on a pin, even though I knew it was Repirire making him look at me like that; he was seeing, I hoped, some of what I had felt.

“Do I have dirt on my nose, Professor Snape?”

“Excuse me. You seem familiar. I was trying to remember where I had seen your face.”

“Well, I have been at dinner with you for five weeks. Perhaps you knew me then?” I teased.

“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “I have interrupted your exercise. Good day.” And he turned to go.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “I’m sorry for teasing. May I walk along with you?” I thought for a moment that he would continue without another word. Instead he half turned for a second, and there it was, that electrical connection in our gaze, but this time I could see that he was disturbed by it. His lips worked a moment before he answered.

“If you like,” he said.

“Thanks.” I whistled Protecteur into the air and told him to follow.

Strangely, it was not hard to chat, as I had already decided that there was nothing I could or should do to shape his impression of me. Nor did I expect to get anything much from him, so I told him about the stables and the new hippogriffs and the ones I had brought with me. He seemed to be letting me natter, but his occasional question was astute; nothing was wasted on this man.

After an hour, Protecteur returned, a bloody weasel dangling from his beak.

“Isn’t that lovely,” I said. “Aren’t you a fierce hunter. Isn’t he a regular tiger, Professor Snape?” Protecteur came to my side and dropped the little corpse, then settled down to chew off its head.

He gave me a sideways, mocking look. “I hope you are not going to set him in your lap.”

“No. But I should take him home. I have to take Serrebrune out and he’s tired. Thanks for the walk.” I started to lead Protecteur to an outcropping of rocks that could give us a launch.

“Stop.” He used the threatening voice I had heard in the halls, piercing and low, and I stopped at once.

“Do you come out here every Saturday morning?” he asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Then I’ll see you here next week.” He withdrew a pocket watch from inside his frock coat. “I’ll be here by seven.”

“Out here by these rocks?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. That would be great. I’m looking forward to it.” Protecteur leapt to the top of the rocks. I bowed, he kneeled, and we took off. I gave Snape a little wave, but he was already striding away, head down.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought he had asked me out on a date. Not a dozen roses, but it was a lot more than I had expected.

+++++

To my amazement, we kept on, every Saturday morning by the rocks. He didn’t ask; he told me to come.

It was always the same thing, and I grew accustomed to the pattern. We started out at a fast clip, Snape’s comments chilly and perfunctory, sarcastic or dismissive in turn. Once we had put half an hour’s walk between ourselves and Hogwarts we slowed slightly and he might inquire, “Have you been well, Madame Desrosiers?” or ask after the griffs or my work with students. We chatted amiably about the many little goings-on inherent in a system like Hogwarts. He was a good judge of character and motivation when his own animosities were uninvolved. It was he who pointed out that Minerva McGonagall knew as much as Headmaster Dumbledore about the school community and that if I needed information or assistance I should go to her, as she was less invested than he in manipulating the staff and students. Yet he bore a grudge against Remus Lupin, a dear fellow who often stopped to chat with me against the paddock fence and bore no resemblance to the devious demon Snape described.

After an hour or so, we usually stopped and sat for a short while, sometimes in a scenic spot. The moors around Hogwarts were crisscrossed with hundreds of tracks; after the first month of these walks I gave up trying to stay oriented.

“How do you do it?” I asked. “You always get us back and never by the same way. After half an hour I never know where we are.”

“I assure you,” he answered, giving me a look. “It is a natural, non-magical talent. Any Muggle who had spent as much time as I out here could do as well.”

“Not me,” I said. “And I still admire you.”

Over the course of winter and into early spring we walked every Saturday. In time, we added an occasional weekday afternoon, just before dinner. In the coldest weather we bundled up in heavy cloaks, waterproof boots and warming spells. He pressed on with savage intensity as if the icy wind were a personal affront. Once, walking backward against the blast, we grinned at each other.

We talked about the landscape, about useful herbs and plants on the Hogwarts grounds, about potions and about magical history and magical creatures and the one thing I knew more about than he -- the relations between human beings and hippogriffs. One topic led to another and we found many areas of common interest. But anything I said about myself dropped into a conversational void. It was like playing tennis with a ball that sometimes vanished in midair.

Discovering a patch of wild grapes, I told him, “I grew up on a vineyard. But we didn’t use the grapes. My father grew hardwood.”

Silence. Then, “Shall we take that turning by the scrub oaks? It leads to a lovely pond.”

Isn’t it strange that you can learn so much about someone without being told? I built an entire Severus Snape in my mind during these walks, yet learned not to show too clearly what I knew; it guided me from a distance and helped me be kind and careful. I saw the envy in his contempt and disparagement of other people and recognized the intense, competitive outsider from the Quidditch Room photo. Something had happened long before Hogwarts that made it hard for him to connect, so proud of his intellect and so protective and ashamed of the rest. Sometimes a random comment of mine would sink him into a funk and we would walk in silence for a grim hour. Yet under it all I sensed -- and prayed desperately to be correct -- an unquenched desire for happiness, and it was on that I pinned my hopes.

Sometime in those months that went from grey and rainy to cold and snowy to the first scented stirrings of spring I recognized that it was love. So different from how I had loved Guy, when love held the promise of finally beginning, when it made me a woman, when I imagined it was simple. Loving Snape was complex. I suffered for him yet couldn’t offer comfort, nor did his pain seem in reach of my help. In loving him I was inviting some of the darkest parts of experience – rejection, misery, rage, bitterness – yet I was compelled to claim him because I alone saw that he belonged with me; if there was one thing I could do in life, it was to make this right.

As the days got longer we sometimes stayed out past dinner on a Wednesday or Thursday. I came by myself and we met at the school gates. He gave me no sign that these peregrinations were enjoyable to him. After each one, after each curt “Good evening,” at the gates (for, in a reversal of the heading-out pattern, he walked faster and grew more distant as we approached the school again), I reasoned with myself. He wouldn’t suffer fools gladly, so if he came out with me, he must want to.

One Saturday morning I took a break from mucking out stalls to breathe the spring air and look out over the grounds. Because they are carnivorous, the business of cleaning up after hippogriffs is especially unpleasant in warm weather. Hagrid was tending to a young brood of Blast-Ended Screwts in a breeding box nearby and came up to join me as I leaned on my shovel. Through a screen of pink cherry blossoms, we could see Professor Snape on the road to the moors.

“Jehane –“ Hagrid cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yeh – Yeh’re not startin’ to care for ‘im, I hope.”

“It’s a little late to turn back, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hagrid said. “’Ee’s a fine man, and ‘ee’d be right lucky to have yeh. It’s just – yeh know – ‘ee’s not the type for it.”

“I know. It’s going to end in tears. Well,” I said, acting a bravery I didn’t feel. “At least you’ll be here to pick up the pieces with strong tea and those tasty rock cakes.” Hagrid’s ruddy face creased into a smile at my expression of confidence.

“’At’s right, Missy, yeh can count on old Hagrid to stand by yeh in time of need.”

And then on one perfect spring Sunday our outward trek lasted longer than usual. It was one of those days when brilliant clouds like lumps of whipped cream are bullied about the sky by gusts. Every tree shook its green buds, and we walked over carpets of crocuses, snowdrops and periwinkles. We came to a large outcropping of licheny old rock. I wondered if it were left by a glacier; I made a mental note to ask him about it, as he surely knew.

“I brought us cheese sandwiches,” I said. “Are you hungry? Let’s sit on the rocks.” For a moment he seemed nonplussed; we had never snacked before.

“No, I’m not hungry,” he said. “But I’ll sit with you if you like.” And he leapt from rock to rock like a mountain goat until he stood at the top.

My approach was less graceful and the last step too steep for me to get a purchase on with my leather soles. I ended up wiggling over the edge and lying like a beached mermaid at his feet. He could have offered me his hand, I thought, but he’s too damn stiff. I got up, dusted myself off, and took in the scene below us -- clouds stretching to the horizon and moors wandering off to meet them in swathes of dusky purple, sage green and gray, dotted by stands of scrub pine and groupings of rock like islands in a vegetable sea. The air was alive with flowery, earthy smells that washed over us in waves, commanding us to breathe deeply.

I took a deep breath and filled myself with contentment. From the corner of my eye I could see his black hair whipping in the wind. We were gazing in the same direction.

This was enough. I loved, and I was happy. In the future I might cry again, be bereft again, but I would always have this day, these clouds, these black strands dancing against the sky. I closed my eyes, put my face up to the sun, and smiled. He was here with me, and if I didn’t have his love, I had my own for him. Enough.

When I opened my eyes he was looking at me. His face was, for a moment – what? – _unarranged_ , and then it came back together in a familiar stern and appraising look. “A lovely day,” he said, as if it weren’t.

Yes,” I said. “A beautiful day.” But a thrill of power and pleasure ran through me. _He saw me_ , and no magic about it. “Now, will you have a cheese sandwich?”

He lowered himself to sit cross legged on the rock. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “I believe I will.”

+++++

After that I started bringing snacks and meals every time. It was amazing how much he could eat once he got started. I made a game of tempting him. One day as we sat again on the rocks he ate a ham and cheese sandwich on a baguette, four figs, a ripe pear, a pecan twirl, a bottle of fizzy lemon and half a packet of chocolate Tasty Spell biscuits.

“You like to eat,” I ventured.

He gave a snort of disgust. “I suppose I do. It’s more that if I don’t eat constantly I lose weight. I have the metabolism of a damned hummingbird.”

I laughed out loud – because it was funny and because he had told me something personal.

“Thanks for sharing,” I said, half seriously, packing up the picnic hamper and shrinking it.

He looked at me suspiciously; maybe he thought I was laughing at him. “You find the world a rather humorous place.”

“No.”

“Why wouldn’t you? You seem to have had a charmed life.”

“You’re uninformed,” I said. “You must know that I’m a widow.”

His eyes flicked to the white stripe on my left hand where my wedding ring had been until the month before. “I thought you were divorced.”

“No.” It surprised me; I thought the gossip chain would have extended that far.

“You took off your ring last month. Why?”

I was unprepared for that question. My turn to prevaricate.

“I didn’t want to think about it anymore.”

+++++

June came, with long days and soft breezes. As the school year drew to a close, the pace of student life picked up and we were hard-pressed to get in a hike. Professor Snape was supervising several activities of his House to culminate during the last week of school, and two of my riding students were preparing for a competition. Although they were just beginners, the wizarding equivalent of pony club girls, I wanted them used to competition. What is more, they would be the only ones at the meet on Unroped animals, and I hoped to garner some publicity for Hippogriff Rescue and our techniques.

Snape and I hadn’t been out in two weeks. I was startled to look up one Saturday morning and see him standing outside the ring. We had always communicated by Floo or note; in fact, he had never seen me work, and he seemed out of place on the paddock dirt in his faultlessly shined black boots.

My best rider was in the air, so I waved at him to wait until I finished with her.

“Good seat, Kelly! Bring her down now.” Serrebrune made a wide circle in the air as Kelly indicated her wishes by shifting her weight and leaning forward. The hippogriff’s hooves cantered in the air, anticipating her touchdown. As she came down, Kelly bounced slightly, then rode her at an easy pace around the ring. She brought her mount to a stop and I came forward to give her a few corrections, then I sent her to brush and stable the griff.

Knowing Snape as I did, I guessed that it had been hard for him to come to me, and wondered at it.

“Hi. It’s good to see you,” I said, as easily as I could with my heart hammering, as it often did on first sight. Ever since the day we ate together on the rocks I had intuited that whatever power I possessed, whatever chance I had of holding on to myself, consisted of my wholehearted pleasure in him, my willingness to be happy with the side of the equation that belonged solely to me. I let my happiness show these days, and I felt better for it.

“And yourself. MacKenzie has broken her wrist, and since she is the author and star of the Slytherin end-of-year play, we are taking a hiatus from rehearsals.” His expression made clear what he thought of star, play, rehearsals and festivities. “I’m taking the opportunity to walk out this afternoon. I thought if you weren’t otherwise engaged, you might care to join me.”

“I am absolutely not otherwise engaged, starting now. Just let me get out of these dirty things.” I raced up to my rooms, canceled my afternoon student by floo and changed my clothes.

The walk began pleasantly enough. I wore my lightest robes over a tank top and cotton pants, expecting the day to grow hotter. Professor Snape wore his usual costume of black frock coat over long pants, although as a concession to the season, the wool was of a lighter weight. I briefly considered teasing him about the coat, but left off the idea.

“I cannot imagine how you teach these hooligans and ignoramuses to ride a hippogriff, especially without a collar,” he remarked sourly.

“Well, as I’ve said, it’s a heuristic process,” I answered. “So it’s not really teaching, it’s facilitating. I get them started and give them permission to have a relationship with the griff. Once they begin riding, the griff corrects them with its behavior. Sometimes I coach them in the relationship. But remember, these are kids who want to ride and love animals. I don’t know if I could do it with a different kind.”

 

“Mm. You give them permission how?”

“For the relationship? Let me think about it.” I took some time as we went on.

“I guess I let them know it’s supposed to be a relationship,” I said. “Not ownership, or just physical mastery like other sports. And I show them how the griff is waiting to meet them halfway. In case they miss the signal.”

“I suppose that kind of child doesn’t often miss the signal,” he said, and I wondered if it was wistfulness I heard in his voice.

“We all miss the signal sometimes. And we all need it.” For a moment I pictured Guy’s tender smile; it was something he would have said. I had learned from him so many of the phrases that nurture and include people.

We walked silently, each with his own thoughts, for some time. I remembered a day like this when Guy and I first knew each other, a long walk. I wondered what he would think of my choices. Guy would have liked Snape; he had great patience for proud, injured creatures, the same loving kindness he had shown me.

We were slowing down.

“Are you getting hot? You might unbutton your coat.”

“No,” he answered. “I’m fine.” I looked at him carefully. He was paler than usual, and squinting against the sunlight, almost wincing.

“You don’t look fine. What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I have a slight headache. It’s nothing. I have a potion for it in my rooms.”

“Shall we turn around?” I said. “We could get back in about forty minutes. Or we could Apparate outside the gates, if your head could take it.”

“I’d rather not. It’s pleasant to be outside.”

“Not pleasant for you,” I said. He shook his head dismissively, but gingerly.

How does one know when to move toward another? There’s no mystery to it – only the culmination of a hundred smaller communications. I felt absolutely certain of myself at that moment.

“Come on,” I said. “I know what you need.”

“Really, it’s not necessary.”

“But I want to. Come on.” And steeling myself for disaster, I took his arm.

He started, but didn’t pull away. Up on a knoll was a grove of tall pines that we had passed many times. I had wondered at them, standing so separately as if they had been planted there for some Druidic purpose. Steering him gently by the elbow, I headed Snape in that direction.

“It’s a very minor headache,” he protested. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“You look like Hell,” I said. “Just let me do something for you, for a change.”

“What can you do? I really prefer not to be the recipient of anyone’s healing spells,” he said bitterly. “Although I am sure you are a competent Healer.”

“No, you are not sure of my competence, and I would never dare direct a spell at you. I’m just going to rub your head.”

I suppose the idea of letting someone touch him was so alarming that he was struck dumb, for the conversation ended there.

The grove was wonderfully cool after the hot sun, pine scented and carpeted thickly with needles. I chose a tree without knobs or runnels of sticky sap and sat with my back against it, legs outstretched. He stood looking down at me, a dark column among the trunks. With a feeling of “Here goes,” I put my hands up.

“Come on, give me your poor head.”

Awkwardly, avoiding my eyes, he folded himself up like a black umbrella. He lay down and fumbled with the arrangement of his arms and legs. Finally he was stretched out at a right angle to me and I took his head in my hands.

This might be the only time I would ever touch him, I thought. I settled his head in my lap and just held it for a moment. His body was rigid, his fingers laced tightly over his chest.

His hair was like a thick liquid, the strands very fine but plentiful, and slightly dirty. I worked my fingers through it along his scalp, releasing his scent, and bent my head to catch it. As I pulled his hair up at the roots a faint inadvertent sigh passed his lips, and I smiled. I warmed his forehead with my hand, then rubbed it in slow gentle circles, moving on to his temples, his cheekbones and the tight muscles of his jaw. I closed my eyes and leaned back, letting my hands know him. Above us, a bird flew from tree to tree, an unmistakable feathery sound.

This might be the only time and I wanted it to last forever. More gently I traced the wings of his nostrils and the deep grooves from nose to mouth. I ran my fingertips along the ends of his lashes and gently stroked the crinkled skin around his eyes. I lifted his head slightly and massaged the back of his neck, letting the weight of his head pull it back against my hands.

He mistook my meaning and made to rise. “Stay,” I said, and placed his head again in my lap. “Stay with me. This is all I want to do right now.”

This time he was heavier, more relaxed. His fingers unclasped on his chest. I returned to all the features I had touched before – forehead, temples, cheekbones, jaw, eyes – but this time caressing them lightly. At his throat I hesitated, then undid the top button of his coat. I gathered up his hair, pulling it gently, then combing my fingers through it.

A lazy hour passed this way.

His face looked different now, softer. Its lines were shallower and the habitually drawn brows were at rest. His lips were slightly parted. We breathed in harmony. One of my hands cupped his jaw and stroked his cheek with its thumb; the other gently twined in his hair. I closed my eyes again. I felt us resting together, at peace.

My leg was asleep. I shifted a little, then surprised myself by speaking.

“I want to tell you something,” I said.

“I love you with all my heart. I will happily go on walks with you for the rest of my life, and we can leave it at that. Or if you want to be close to someone, if you want to love and be loved, here I am.

“But Severus –“ It was my first use of his given name. “I know how it is with you. It can only happen if you make the choice. Then you will walk through the fire. Otherwise, you won’t keep on. It’s just too scary.”

I wondered if he knew what I meant; I myself had only found my meaning as I spoke. Then I wondered if he was asleep, so long a time passed.

“I don’t mean to push you,” I continued. “We can just go on like this, or at least, I think I can. But I want you to know what is here for you, if you choose.” I don’t know how I had the courage to offer myself like this. Perhaps I already knew the answer. He mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“What?”

“It’s too late to choose,” he said softly. “I’m in too deep.” A thrill ran through me.

“I didn’t know. Do you – care for me?”

A long pause. His eyes were still closed. “Yes.” He caught my hand and held it.

I took it away.

“You still must choose. I know this as well as I know anything. If you choose, you will discipline yourself to love.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I know how it is with you. You don’t trust anybody. You stay away from people. They scare you half to death. You’re nasty. Even if you want me, you’ll want to bolt.

“But you are disciplined. If you choose this, you’ll stick to it. You’ll overcome obstacles. I don’t want you ever to feel that you were trapped, even by your own feelings.

“So decide, and choose. Then we can go forward.”

“You do know me,” he said.

With one swift graceful movement, he sat up and faced me, eyes glittering, only inches away. It frightened me a bit. Strangely, we were both breathing heavily.

“I choose, then,” he said passionately. “I choose to love you, and – I choose your love.”

“All right then,” I said. “All right.”

How had we gone so quickly from that dreamy state to this feeling of a struggle just concluded?

We stared at each other, panting and flushed. I think we were afraid to kiss, but finally we found each other’s lips with a sigh. His were very soft. It was a chaste little kiss, like the signing of a pact, but it made me tremble.

The shadows had begun to lengthen as we came down the hillock from the grove. It was cooling off. Severus paused for a moment to give me a twitch of the eyebrow and a self-mocking little smirk, then ceremoniously draped his arm around my shoulder. I imagined what he must have been like as a teenager, tall and agile, angry and bitter, and I felt a rush of tenderness for that boy in his dueling whites.

“What were you like at sixteen?” I asked.

“Miserable,” he answered. “I would never have talked to a beautiful girl like you.”

That was a stunner. Me, the albino rabbit. Then I thought of that miserable boy and hugged him around the waist.

“I would have talked to you,” I said. “If I had any sense.” We walked on like that, arms around each other, and I pretended to myself that we were sixteen and each other’s first loves.

“When did you –“ He stumbled over this a little. “When did you – develop this feeling for me?”

“Maybe at first sight.” I laughed. “I didn’t know it was love, but I was wildly attracted to you from the beginning. Do you remember when our eyes met at the Halloween feast? I chased you on Protecteur, the day we first really met, just to get a chance.”

He glanced at me sideways. “I remember you staring at me. You must be mad. I’ve never inspired that sort of response.”

“I suspect you have. You just missed it. So when did you --?”

“The day we climbed the rocks. Until then, I didn’t know. I thought it was intellectual companionship -- and it is -- but not – the rest.”

“What was it about that day? That made you – realize?” I asked.

“It came on me all of a sudden. You were standing at the top of the rocks and smiling. You had your eyes closed. Suddenly I knew that you were happy with me, that I was part of your happiness. I can’t explain it, Jehane – what that was like. I’ve not made many people happy. And when I saw that, I realized that you were part of my happiness as well.

“Frankly,” and here I heard the dour Severus I was more used to, “It was awful. I nearly was sick.”

“Vertigo,” I said. “You shouldn’t undergo such rapid expansions of consciousness.”

“No,” he said. “Fear.”

“Of course,” I replied. “And when did you know that I loved you?”

“Just now. When you took my head in your hands.”

“Then I intend to do this every day,” I said, running my fingers through his hair.

As we grew closer to school, he dropped his arm. Our pace increased and the easy conversation dried up. He buttoned his top button decisively.

“Bye,” I said, although we were fifteen minutes from the castle. He looked at me quizzically and I gestured at the button.

“Mm,” he grunted. “Madame Desrosiers. This Wednesday, perhaps, weather permitting?”

“Weather permitting.” Then I leaned forward and kissed him again, even though we were just minutes from home.


	8. Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehane continues her relationship with Professor Snape.

Chapter 8 -- Severus

When Wednesday arrived, weather did permit. But it was as if the events of the previous week had not occurred. He barely spoke to me at all, as we started out walking fast and went faster. He chose all the turnings without hesitation and took the lead to the pine grove, striding just ahead of me.

“Severus,” I panted. “Could you please slow down? I thought this was a pleasure jaunt, not a race walk.”

“Forgive me.” He forced himself to a halt, then resumed, emanating impatient restraint. There was something on his mind that needed to be accomplished in the grove.

The heat of the afternoon had released the rich scent of the pines, and the needles on the ground cushioned our steps. Inside, the grove was hushed except for the susurration of the upper boughs. As we crossed, the sun flashed between the trunks. He turned his back on me before he spoke.

“Do you know what I am?” His voice was tight.

I understood immediately.

“I know what you were,” I answered.

“I still am.”

“What?” I asked. “Say it.”

“I am a former Death Eater. People died at my hands, or died because of my actions.”

“You are more than that. And you fought him.”

“Nothing can erase what I did before.”

“You fought him, Severus. You risked your life over and over. You were instrumental in Voldemort’s defeat, and you have the Order of Merlin to prove it.”

“It doesn’t outweigh my – crimes.”

I walked around and stood facing him.

“Listen,” I said. “If you’ve really laid waste all around, as you say, then don’t do it to yourself as well.

“I know a little bit about guilt, so let me tell you. My husband – Guy –“ And here a few tears caught in my voice so I stopped, drew a deep breath, then hurried on. “ – and I rehabilitated hippogriffs. You know we wrote _Hippogriff Whispering_. He was more practical than me. Some of them, he said, were too psychologically damaged to rehabilitate, too dangerous.

“One year we had to put two of them down in two months. It was very hard for me. So when we got this beautiful black griff named Castor, I begged him. I begged him to try longer, even though Castor wouldn’t feed, wouldn’t bow, wouldn’t look us in the eye. We were making no progress with him and he was just as aggressive as when they brought him in.

“Guy wanted to put him down, but I pleaded for his life. One night Castor tore my finger when I tried to feed him. I didn’t tell Guy, because I was afraid of being pressured.

“The next morning, Castor ripped out his throat.

“So please don’t tell me about killing people. At least you didn’t kill anyone you loved. Don’t tell me how hard it is to go on after that.”

There was a silence as I struggled not to cry. I knew I must look like a crumpled red handkerchief. I walked away for a few minutes.

“I loved my husband,” I said, keeping my back to him. “He was – my whole family, and my future. And I – let him be killed – I stole his life from him – because I was sentimental about an _animal_.”

I waited a moment and when I had mastered myself I looked over my shoulder. He had that that unarranged look again.

“I’m – sorry,” he said. “Truly, I didn’t know. I remember the story in the papers. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection.”

“Do you see? This isn’t about your guilt, or about being a Death Eater or a murderer. You’re afraid to give yourself to me. You would be just the same if you hadn’t done those things.”

A pause. “Yes.”

“We’re broken, Severus. We’re ruined. Both of us. So please don’t keep away from me. Please.”

“I don’t want to.”

He stepped close to me now. He opened his mouth to speak, and I heard the faint click of his lips parting, but he hesitated. A look of pain crossed his face. He seemed at a loss. Then, very low, he said – “May I kiss you?”

I nodded.

As he leaned forward, I smelled the faint tang of his skin, and the ends of his hair brushed my cheek before he touched his lips to mine. We stood breathing each other in, as if unable to imagine that there could be more than this moment of our lips barely touching, our trembling hands meeting in the air, our soft guttural noise of tenderness. Then he gently opened my lips with his own and pulled me to him.

That kiss seemed to go on forever. We were new people, just made for each other in a freshly washed world. Our mouths, our fingers twining in each other’s hair, our bodies pressed together spoke richer promises than we could put in words. And when we were done, we hung around each other’s necks, stealing more kisses, and found ourselves laughing.

 

++++++

 

Now that he had once come to the stable, Severus appeared there several times a week. He seemed to know my schedule perfectly, and, strangely, my unscheduled activities as well, for he never appeared when I wasn’t free to see him. I would look up from the end of a lesson to find him at the fence, glowering; he was ridiculously proud and felt at a disadvantage. The best cure was to bring him into the stable and, if no one else was around, back him against a wall and kiss him thoroughly.

We had a new hippogriff that spring, a young brown female named Cadbury. I hoped to work with her over the summer and have her ready for fall, since I expected a larger group of students come September. I was finishing up a session with her one day when he appeared.

“Hey,” I said. “Look how well she’s doing.” And I sent her into the air with a gesture and a whistle. The griffs were allowed to go anywhere in the air -- except over the Forbidden Forest and close to the castle -- as long as they came to ground by their trainer. She flew to the edge of the forest, then I whistled her down. After an elegant landing, she offered her head for a scratch.

Something was troubling him.

“You won’t tame me,” said Severus coldly. “I hope that’s not in your plans.”

It was preposterous and unexpected. I took a moment to marshal my thoughts.

“Is that what you think I’m doing here? With her or with you?”

“It’s a hard parallel to ignore,” he said flatly.

“Have you heard anything I’ve told you about Unroped hippogriff training?” I said. “There’s no force.”

“Yet they take orders from you,” he said. I wanted to argue but guessed it would be futile.

“They enjoy our work together. It’s an ancient relationship,” I said. “Look.” I rubbed my cheek against Cadbury’s beak, stroking her feathered head. “She could tear my face open right now. She could hold me down with her talons and disembowel me like a rabbit. She won’t, though. I trust her.”

“She won’t hurt you because you’ve tamed her. You’ve fed her from your hand and played with her and kept her company. She can’t hurt you even if she wants to.”

I had been angry, but that was gone; I saw so clearly what he was struggling with. I left the hippogriff and came to Severus, sitting on the fence. It was best just to listen and understand.

“So you’re saying that I’ve – weakened her. By giving her – by -- filling her needs. I’ve seduced her. And now she’s captive. I’ve done it by love.”

Yes,” he said, looking at the ground, and his mouth turned down bitterly.

“And – if I love her also? And can’t hurt her, even if I want to?”

“If you found that she was dangerous, you would put her down, like you did Castor.”

I slid off the fence and leaned there, legs on either side of him, waiting until he raised his eyes to mine.

“I know what she is,” I said.

 

+++++

 

In June, we went out nearly every day. A few students stayed at school but Severus seemed less concerned about discretion; sometimes we walked into Hogsmeade to shop or to have (for him) enormous lunches. Various staff members went off on holiday but cycled in and out, spending a good part of the summer at Hogwarts as well, researching or preparing for the upcoming year. Casual, family-like meals were taken in the Great Hall at a single table, staff and students together.

Tilda Squires, a Hufflepuff and a promising rider, was one of the remaining students. She had gotten permission from her parents to stay on because she couldn’t bear to be away from the hippogriffs. Having her there to teach, and frankly, to take on some of the animal care, was a relief and a pleasure. She was always around the stables or Hagrid’s hut, and her unquestioning acceptance of Severus’ relationship with me went a little way toward relaxing him about being observed.

The staff, however, were a different matter. Not that they were disapproving – just the opposite. They were so terribly delighted that they could barely keep to themselves. At meals, McGonagall kept catching my eye to give me incredulous smiles, and Dumbledore went so far as to “accidentally” meet us on the road from Hogsmeade so he could greet us and shake our hands. It was a bit unnerving and made Severus surly. On his stops at the paddock fence, Remus now inquired after Severus, and once, finding him there, actually clapped him on the back. I waited for some kind of explosion, but Severus merely moved away and gave him a black look.

The first of July dawned with a light drizzle that grew into a soaking downpour. We had planned to walk out on the moors in the afternoon. I was in the stables mucking out stalls and talking to the hippogriffs in my shorts and wellies, my hair tied back in a series of elastics that left it looking like a row of bludgers. In weather like this my head was surrounded by a cloud of stray pink hairs standing on end and nothing magical or practical could control them. I kept wiping them back from my sweaty face with my forearm; it wasn’t hot out, but so humid that everything was damp.

Something darkened the doorway and Severus stepped through. He had used a Moisture-Repelling spell and his clothes were crisp and unwrinkled. He looked about suspiciously for a moment, making sure we were alone, then crossed the barn in two long strides and looked sternly at me.

“Hello,” I said. I had gotten used to what I thought of as the Thresholds whenever we met, a series of hesitations and bumps as we came together. Each of us contributed to getting over them, and differently each time. This time, he took my shoulders in his hands, pulled me forward, and kissed me forcefully. His long tongue in my mouth tasted faintly of coffee and I ran my fingers up into his hair to pull him closer. We kissed for several minutes until he gave a start and broke away; Serrebrune was grooming his hair with her beak.

“Oh, you just got your membership card,” I laughed. “Now you’re a part of the club.” He gave a theatrical shiver and looked sideways at Serrebrune.

“I’m not sure I want membership.”

“You ought to ride. You’d be good at it.”

“I prefer a broomstick,” he said.

“They’re not equivalents,” I said. “But think about it.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “What about a hike? We could go out under a Repelling spell.”

“It’s not the same somehow. I’m sure yours is very good, but those things always make me feel as if I’m in a bubble. The rain doesn’t come in but the air doesn’t either.” He looked disappointed.

So far, our affair had been conducted almost entirely outside, in part because the weather had been wonderfully mild, and in part, I suspected, because both of us had been too shy to drag it over the castle threshold. This was the ideal time to do so. I picked up a brush and busied myself with Filleambre’s coat.

“Why don’t you come to my rooms instead?” I hoped the shadowy interior of the barn would hide my blush. I peeked at him. He looked a bit embarrassed but pleased.

“I’d be delighted. I have a very nice bottle of twelve year old Firewhiskey; shall I bring that along for the cocktail hour?”

Oh, good, the cocktail hour. He was planning to stay a while. “Absolutely,” I answered.

“Until then.” He gave a little bow and a smirk and was gone with a swirl of his robes.

I was somewhat torn, after my bath, about whether to make a special effort with myself. Finally I decided it would make me more nervous to be dressed up, so I settled for some serious hair spells which worked part way, so that my hair laid down instead of up and I was able to leave it loose. I wore jeans and a more-becoming-than-usual green flowered shirt, and left it at that.

Severus arrived at the crack of 2:00, impeccably dressed and freshly shaved. He smelled of some mysterious smoky cologne that spoke of midnight wood fires and the ferny undergrowth of the forest. Silk cuffs peeked from the sleeves of his coat. At the door he handed me the whiskey and we stood on either side of the entrance, staring at each other.

“If we don’t move on with this, I’m going to be sick with nerves,” I said.

“Very romantic,” he answered, but he stepped inside and as soon as we laid hands on each other it was all right. We stood kissing and nuzzling each other for some time, then broke apart with a gasp. Somehow the day’s agenda had become mutually implicit.

He strode to the mantelpiece. There was a picture of Guy there. I had considered taking it down, but decided against; he was a fact of my life and Severus might as well get used to him, but I wished, as I watched, that Guy did not look quite so terribly handsome in the picture as he did. He smiled affectionately out of the frame and tossed his hair out of his eyes.

“This is your husband,” Severus remarked dryly.

“Yes, that’s Guy,” I said. “That was taken when we did the book jacket photos.”

“He’s very handsome.”

“Yes,” I said. “He was very kind and smart as well. And I would love to have some of this whiskey with _you_. Will you?” Severus was positively radiating dark discontent which I recognized as jealousy.

“Yes,” he answered. It seemed unfortunate that we had to start with Guy, and I wondered again if I should have put the picture away.

“Just a tick,” I said, and went into my bedroom to find my drinks glasses. They were not where I expected and I took some time digging in the closet. As I returned I heard Severus murmuring. I stopped in the door for a moment and then I heard it, Guy’s encouraging voice – “Go ahead, man.” – and I had to step back into the darkened room to compose myself.

When I came in with the glasses, Severus was uncorking the bottle by the window and looking more cheerful.

“Have you had Old Boggart? It’s quite good.”

“No,” I said. “But I like Firewhiskey generally. Remind me to be careful, though; a little goes a long way.” I decided not to tell him about the time, three months previous, when Hagrid had carried me back from The Three Broomsticks in his arms like a baby.

We touched glasses. “Well, here we are,” I said, then winced. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Come sit down.”

I had an opinionated burgundy velvet couch. It was rather worn, but I had brought it with me because I enjoyed its sense of humor. As I sat, the arm on my side, carved into a bird’s head, said, “Why don’t you choose the other end for a change?” Severus followed, and the head on his side said, “Needs to put some meat on his bones, this one.”

“That’s a rather personal comment,” Severus replied acidly.

“Look,” I said, draping the bird’s face with a dish towel I kept for the purpose. Severus followed suit and the room was quiet again, except for the hissing of the rain outside.

“All right then,” he said briskly. “Tell me about Guy.”

“Oh, Severus, couldn’t we leave that for some other time?”

“No, now I really want to know.”

“Isn’t this going to bother you?” I asked. “And I’ve said a lot already.”

“Yes, of course it’s going to bother me,” he replied peevishly. “That’s why I want to get it over with.” He took a slug of his drink.

“If I do, I’m not going to pull any punches. I won’t try to make it easier for you. Wouldn’t you rather play Wizardscrabble?”

“No, I would not like to play _Wizardscrabble_ ,” he said. “Were you very much in love with him.?”

“Yes,” I said. “As I mentioned. I was very much in love with him.” And I told, first about my mother’s death, then Beauxbatons, about Protecteur and how he led me to my work, then Guy, and the Foundation and then – again – Guy’s death, and the terrible year after that. It took maybe an hour, during which we carefully sipped the whiskey but refrained from refilling the glasses. The room grew darker. He had taken my legs in his lap and pulled off my sneakers and was gently flexing and pulling my toes.

I was surprised to find that I felt relieved, emptied; I had never told my whole story to one person.

“I thought I might get married again someday,” I said. “I thought it would be some sort of friendly, companionable late life thing, you know, keeping each other company.

“I had no idea about you,” I said, leaning forward, and I could see the need in his eyes, see him drinking in my words. “I didn’t know what it was to want to pull someone so deep inside me, to want to put his hand on every part of me. I loved Guy with all the person I was, but that person is gone.

“I told you, I’m ruined. There are things I can never forget. But when I met you, I knew I was good for something. I love you now with all that’s happened to me and all I’ve become. If you don’t keep me, Severus, I don’t know what I’ll do.” There was a pause.

“That’s it,” I said helplessly.

As I did, he groaned, set his glass down abruptly, unfurled himself and, taking my thighs in his hands, pulled me flat on the couch. He crawled over me and, supporting himself on his elbows, looked into my eyes and began kissing me with an industrious intensity that had me shivering, hot, and wet in an instant. His body was warm and heavy and quivering tightly like a bowstring.

“ _Keep_ you?” he breathed into my ear, kissing and licking the side of my neck. “God, Jehane, I belong to you.” I writhed under him gasping with excitement. Too excited to stop, but aching to get to his skin I struggled with his many buttons while we squirmed uncontrollably. Finally the front of his coat was undone and I worked my arms underneath and pulled his shirt out of his pants. I thrust my arms under it, feeling his hot skin, the muscles shifting beneath, the silk dampened with sweat, the ridge of his backbone flexing as he ground against me.

He brought his head up to stare into my eyes. Then with a murmured, “Comperio,” he drew his finger down the front of my shirt and the buttons disappeared. He pushed my shirt open and looked at my breasts.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “They’re beautiful.” I shivered and felt myself expand and open for him. He rubbed my nipple with his nose, then kissed it, then closed his hot mouth over it and began to suck. Another wave of pleasure rolled through me, tearing a cry from my throat. I thought I might come right then.

He caught my excitement and began to buck against me in earnest. I could feel him struggling to slow down, but recognized the sounds of impending climax. “Wait –“ I got my hand down far enough to undo my jeans and begin to wriggle them off my legs. A breathy spell – his — and they were gone. “Let me,” I said, fumbling with the buttons of his fly. I managed to free his cock and gasped at the feel of its hardness in my hand. He groaned as I stroked it, then said, “ _Don’t_.”

“ _Now_ , please,” I begged. “Fast now, slow later.” He grunted through clenched teeth, the head of his cock pressed against my swollen entrance, my wetness caressing it. He was panting. “Now.” and I grabbed him by the back waistband and pulled. He slid inside me, suddenly, with another sharp intake of breath.

“Oh God,” he said. “Oh. Oh.”

“Yes. Yes. YES.”

In three thrusts we toppled over the edge, still mostly dressed and making an unbelievable racket.

Some time passed, but not too much time, as the couch was uncomfortable for two tall people. We sat up and straightened our clothes. I was suddenly frightened that he would leave. We were a bit embarrassed. It was growing dark outside and I summoned a few candles for the mantelpiece.

I coughed a little and a funny moment went by. I wasn’t sure what to say after moments of such intensity. He stroked my hair, calming me.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Oh! Yes. Great idea. May I have my pants back?”

“No, you may not.”

“Then you must take off your shirt,” I said. “That’s only fair.”

He started to strip. “Wait,” I said. “I’d like to do that.” I pushed off his frock coat and undid the many buttons on his shirt, kissing his wrists, his shoulders and his collar bones as I did, breathing in the smell of sweat and skin. He was very pale, of course, with knotty muscles running across his broad shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned back to receive the ministrations of my fingers and tongue. I took my time. Then he sat up, murmuring, “Look at you,” and laid his head against my belly, running his hands over my buttocks. He nuzzled the curls on my mound.

“You’re a real redhead,” he said.

“You weren’t actually wondering, were you?’

“No.”

Tinky was the model of elven decorum, evincing no surprise as I ordered chicken and dumplings, broccoli with garlic, a salad of wild greens, a cheese course, a creme brulee and a bottle of pinot noir, wearing nothing but my green flowered shirt. She was back in a flash, laid it out on the coffee table, and disappeared with a pop as we began to tuck in.

Part way through the meal I looked up at the mantel and missed something. Severus followed my eyes.

“He’s in the drawer,” he growled. “There is a limit to my tolerance.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “May I ask you some questions?” He grimaced. “Oh, please, Severus, don’t you think it’s silly for me to love you like this and not know if you have brothers and sisters?”

“I have no living siblings,” he sighed. “Next question? You may have two more.”

“So you had one that died?”

“Is that one of your questions?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I had a brother who predeceased me.”

“How old was he? When he died.”

“That is also one of your questions.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “My last question.”

“He died before I was born. He was three years old.” I looked at him sadly. “I was a replacement.”

“Oh,” I said. “I hope you didn’t think that when you were a kid. Not a question.”

“It was hard not to. I was something of a disappointment.” he said bitterly. “Is there any of that wine left?”

I poured him a glass. “May I have three questions tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry, that is a question.”

We talked about this and that, and as the time passed it dawned on me joyfully that he was going to stay the night.

“Will you come to bed now?” I asked. “For the slow part?”

He leapt up.

As we left the room, arms about each othe,r I heard two small voices –

“Dis _gus_ ting,” said the right arm.

“Makes you grateful for the towel,” said the left.


	9. Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehane and Severus take their time.

Just inside my bedroom door, we stop and turn toward each other. His black eyes glitter inscrutably. How does he manage to look down his nose at me when we are the same height? A perception spell? A little smile quirks his lip and I know.

“Quit that.” He touches his wand in his pocket and it disappears. “You don’t scare me.”

“Oh, I don’t?” -- Menacingly, drawing himself up.

“Okay, a little. But don’t do it now.”

“No.”

I step back. “I want to look at you.”

He gives a small, dismissive head-shake. “If you like.”

He has broad shoulders against such very slim hips. Not a bit of extra flesh on him; his trousers stretch straight across his hipbones like a tight wire. Yet he bears the signs of middle age, a slight softness around the middle, looseness under the upper arm, a crinkling at the base of the throat. Poignant – like Desdemona, I love him for the dangers he has passed.

A small sprinkling of straight black hairs decorates his chest, gathering into a downward rivulet below his navel. His nipples are dark and small, with a little concavity at the sternum. His thighs are long and absolutely straight. I wonder what it would be like to hold them in my hands. He stands in trousers and socks. When has he lost his boots?

“Are we done looking now?” he asks sarcastically.

“Never. But I can stop for a while, if you wish.”

“Yes. Come here.”

Shivering anticipation. Then the silk and scent of his skin envelop me. For a moment we fold together, taking a long breath as our bodies meet.

“You’re very soft,” he says.

“Yes. You can have all you want.” He tightens his arms around me, pushing off my green shirt, and gently bites the crook of my neck. I murmur my pleasure, leaning in to rub my chill-stiffened nipples against his chest. After a while my hands go where they want to be, on his hipbones, thumbs rubbing under the waistband of his trousers. His navel is absolutely flat.

“You’re looking again,” he says.

“You’re so different from me.”

“Yes. I’m a man and you’re a woman. Frankly, I prefer this.” Stroking the curve of my belly.

“I like this.” I bend and take his nipple in my mouth.

‘Oh –“ He cocks his hip against me. I move over and suck the other one, drawing little huffs of pleasure from him.

“I want to learn you,” I say.

“Fine, fine. Are we planning to stand here all night?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

“Lie down.” He leads me to the bed. I kick the covers to the bottom and roll onto my back, inviting. He shucks off his pants – oh mysterious dark pubic nest! -- but sits with his impossibly long legs folded beneath him, regarding me steadily.

“Are you going to sit there all night?”

“No, I’m –“ But he shakes his head.

I hold out my arms. With a sigh, he stretches out beside me. We lay our heads on the same pillow and he takes my hands in his, holding them to his chest.

He catches me with those black eyes, tensed, as if it hurts to look. Like a touch. _He makes love with his eyes._ Wanting to gather him into my arms but motionless holding his gaze instead. A hush falls over us, all banter, push-and-pull, mock- and real hostility set aside.

Face to face. “Your eyes are so dark,” I say. Tenderness a pain in my chest. His beautiful-ugly face, opening for me, the look of wary longing that beckons and arouses me, the vulnerable white softness of his skin.

My words bubbling up and spilling over, “I love you. I love you. Darling Severus. Sweet darling man.” Another head-shake. “Yes. Let me. Let me show you.” Kissing all over his face, raking my fingers through his silky hair, and now, laying my chest on his, wiggling with pleasure. His breathy “Oh –“ Wraps his arms around me. I fit my face up under his jaw for the scent of his neck. “So slow. I want to love you all over. Sweet man.” Finally he shuts me up, nosing my face up to his and laying his upper lip between mine. Breathing together for a moment, then he opens and his tongue touches mine, stroking, exploring the corners, the roof of my mouth, the peak of my upper lip. I put my hands up and hold his face. He stops then continues his long, focused kisses.

Drawing out and drawing out. A long time passes with touching and tasting and biting and finding new places for fingers, noses and tongues.

Not speaking but crooning in the back of my throat. What is good for me is good for him what is good for him is good for me my pleasure his joy his pleasure my joy, running through me like a song. Reaching down to stroke his cock and feel his moan pass through me like electric water. His hand cupping my breast, picture his long fingers oh god those longed-for fingers over my breast rubbing my nipple catching them up to suck and feel his body arching up for more of me. _It feels good to me to feel good to you._

 _All over on top of you breathless with so much warm skin the salty smell of you our legs interlaced my body is caressing your body. Your hands all over my back, my arse. My lips by your ear to whisper Love; it’s love._

 _And you: Yesss. Oh. Yes. Staying with me face to face where my tongue licks your lips our lashes touching your hands in my hair pulling me back to look again into your love making eyes that go straight in so that I feel my wetness against your leg, opening, opening._

 _I pull back a little on all fours god the look of you, your erect prick so proud, veined and shining you are writhing or trying not to, do you love my little breasts hanging over you. Burying my face in your fur, rubbing my cheek against your balls, giving you what I hope you want, my tongue slickly flicking against your shaft my mouth so fiery and loving taking you in, your cries heartbreaking and hot. Love and desire swirl with my tongue around you with my answering moans._

 _And then you pull away before it’s too late and roll me over your hand seeking the soft wetness. “For you. It’s you,” I say. Just the feel of it on your fingers and you groan with pleasure just the feel of your long fingers and I’m almost there saying “Don’t stop please don’t stop oh OH” and I give it to you coming to your touch your skin your smell you you._

 _Coming down with your arms around me your hair draped around my face. Breathe, breathe. You take my wrists and hold them to the bed above my shoulders, in charge . Before you enter you tease me with the head of your cock, no hands. Make me squirm. It takes just a moment I am so ready and I wrap my legs around you, come in deeper, deeper. Now is when I want you to hear it, “Come in come in sweet darling man, darling Severus, my sweetheart, my love.”_

 _And your half-sobbing breath, your slow thrust that I meet pressing my heels into your back, and another another another driven now no stopping until_

 _I hear your words_

 _oh_

 _OH_

 _dear girl_

+++++

I’m afraid we were not seen for several days around the Hogwarts campus. I was filled with satisfied longing and sated lust and feared that an indecent amount of it was blazoned on my face. I snuck down early every morning to feed the griffs and left their exercise to Tilda and Thomas. It was the weekend, after all, and then it was only Monday, and all I wanted was to stay with my lover. We read to each other and ate picnics in my sitting room and of course spent much of the time in bed.

Severus felt that arriving at dinner separately come Monday night would reduce speculation. The futility of this device was immediately apparent to me as I came in. Severus was already seated, unfolding his napkin, so he missed the storm of humorous and suggestive eye contact that swirled around us. Minerva McGonagall turned quite pink and pressed her lips together; the alternative seemed to be a laughing fit. Professor Sprout gave a little snort and looked down at her plate. Lupin nudged Hooch in the side, then grinned at me, pointing at Severus with his raised eyebrows. Even Tilda smiled benignly, and Dumbledore looked so genial and congratulatory that for one horrified moment I thought he was going to make a speech. It was as if I had a neon sign over my head stating, “ Finally Went to Bed.” Come to think of it, Professor Snape was taking rather a long time with his napkin and cutlery.

Best defense a good offense. “You people must lead very dull lives,” I scolded as I sat down. “Who is ready for the new term?”

Then, as they say, the conversation became general.


	10. Wand Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wand has many uses.

Chapter 11 – Wand Work

 _I swim up to consciousness to feel Severus moving about next to me. It is completely black in the room._

 _“What is it?” I ask._

 _“Not sleeping.” Lips close to my ear._

 _“Want company?” All in sleepy voices, wrapped around by the warm dark._

 _“Yes.”_

 _I thread my arm around his neck, whispering, “What’s wrong?”_

 _“I don’t sleep well. I haven’t in a long time.”_

 _“I’m sorry.”_

 _“But – “ Resting his hand over my ribs._

 _“Yes?”_

 _“It’s – comforting. When I’m here. I – never thought I’d like to share a bed. But I do.”_

 _“You’ve never shared a bed?”_

 _“No. I liked to leave.”_

 _Poignant volumes. Keeping my promise, I will not ask._

 _“But I hadn’t in a long time. Had anyone.”_

 _“I’m glad it’s me.” This is easy, then. Just to be happy in the moment. I stroke his face and think that you could just be here, not burdened by the past._

 _Then he surprises me. “There was a girl. She was the daughter of family friends. Tamara. I’d known her all my life, but then suddenly she wanted me.”_

 _“And you?”_

 _“Couldn’t.” Makes a gesture toward himself in the dark, something that means All This._

 _This is different from questioning, pursuing. There is something about his breathing and I realize that he is regulating it, calming himself. He is breathing this story into my waiting hands._

 _“But you loved her.”_

 _He sighs, a painful rusty sound. “Yes. I had for a long time and she knew it. She tried and tried, and she waited. Then she couldn’t wait anymore.”_

 _“Oh, Sweetheart.”_

 _“The thing was, she really loved me.”_

 _“Yes. What a waste.”_

 _“I don’t even know where she is now.”_

 _“In your heart.”_

 _“You don’t mind?”_

 _“You’re forty years old. You have a history. It’s part of you.”_

 _“I wish I was better at it, with you.”_

 _“I don’t want for anything. I couldn’t ask for a better lover or friend.”_

 _“Hm.”_

 _Lying in each other’s arms, touching along the length of our bodies. My hand on his chest as his breathing deepens. I loosen my hold on awareness and we begin to wash into the sea of sleep. Only to do this, only to hold him in the night, only this only this only_

 

*****

 

The storms of autumn over, we settled into a comfortable rhythm of work and mutual discovery.

He did not improve much, as anticipated. I tried not to be around when he was with students, and when I overheard their complaints I reverted to a silent mantra -- “He is not me, he is not me.” I hadn’t expected him to change -- one benefit of embarking on love in maturity -- so I was not disappointed. Once or twice, though, I heard him catch himself in mid-rant and send the relieved child off with, “Oh, get out of my sight.” It was a funny little valentine to receive in a sideways fashion.

I drew frequently on the talk I had had with Hagrid and abstained from “workin’ on” Severus. I found that this required work on myself instead. I committed myself daily to loving him as-is, and to my surprise it became easier. A great feeling of mutuality bloomed between us and many things could benefit one or the other to the improvement of both.

We traded books. He was appalled that I hadn’t any modern poetry and set me Wallace Stevens, the sestinas of Delphi and William Carlos Williams. I thought his tastes were too highbrow and gave him Anne Rice, whom he pronounced “revolting,” and Cardomas Whiskerhaus, whom he deemed “a poor prose stylist.” He seemed to have emerged from the womb with Stevens in one hand and Shakespeare in the other, for he had never read a children’s book. He refused _Charlotte’s Web_ – no talking pigs for him – but declared _Goodnight Moon_ a masterpiece, borrowing and not returning my copy.

I learned a little cooking. This had been Guy’s purview, but Severus was so very pleased to be fed from my hand (sometimes literally) that it was worth stumbling about in the kitchen to produce a cheese omelet and be praised as if I were Gourmede de Savoureaux himself.

I rarely went down to the dungeons. Severus liked to come visit me and I saw that he needed a place to which he could retreat. Overnights were by invitation, although in time a shaving kit and toothbrush took up residence in my bathroom. and my closet somehow enlarged to accommodate a number of black garments, meticulously arranged on wooden hangers. Eventually there were more overnights than not.

Lovers’ rituals sprouted like mushrooms after rain. Severus was an alert early riser and always brought me a cup of coffee in bed; if he was staying up late, I arranged his pajamas on his pillow. He liked to have a little dark chocolate with his tea in the evening; when I brought it he thanked me tersely but the soft look on his face was worth any effort. When the Black Beast was upon him but he wanted company, he’d turn my wing chair back-to-the-room and sit; I’d leave him alone until he turned it around. Once when I’d had a very bad day, he came home to find the chair turned with me in it and laughed with delight.

In time I learned that I could not help him, but that if I was there, he helped himself. As I let go of making a project of him, I increasingly respected his way of being in the world. Between us, we grew more space for our differences. And out of this mutual respect and admiration we developed more flexible ways of responding. Severus leapt to sarcasm less frequently, waiting to see if he truly needed to defend himself. I held my own more consistently, without anger, and took his waspishness less personally.

I had thought that as Severus and I went on living together my memory of Guy would dim, frozen and distant like my childhood. It did not. I often thought of them together, understanding my lover in the light of my husband, and, more strangely, knowing Guy better from being with Severus. Guy continued to grow and change with me, as Severus did.

During my marriage I had not realized how Guy’s great sociability tired me. It was a given of our life that he was a people person and I was not. Now, most strangely, I was the people person of the two, and saw myself in a different light. I was quiet, not antisocial, and chose my friends carefully. Because I lived with Severus, I understood that Guy’s great lovingkindness had been a kind of art.

Because I had lived with Guy, I treasured Severus’ ability to be part of a twin solitude all the more. Married young, Guy and I had formed each other; Severus and I loved each other by leaving much alone and this was my art, refined every day.

Sometimes I wondered if Guy and I could have stayed so happy, so simply. With Guy, everything was right there to hand; there was something Edenic about his forthrightness, warmth and ease. Perhaps more would have been required of me if he had lived. It seemed that our love had not changed much over time but perhaps I had forgotten.

Severus was work. The closeness we both craved nonetheless required frequent, difficult negotiation. He remained dour, sarcastic, impatient and pessimistic, and I reminded myself often that this was his nature. Acknowleging our separateness made me stronger and surer of myself. Yet knowing that he wanted me, that he was more or less constantly working toward me, gave our moments of communion great sweetness.

Truthfully, I would not have appreciated the pleasure of our hard-won intimacy if I had not had the easier kind first. On some level I never stopped chasing him, and only because I had lived another way did I understand that this was a condition of what interested and attracted me. I understood now, as I had not the first year, that Severus was for me not only a dear friend and lover, but a spiritual path.

I felt at last a sense of perfect usefulness. I wished to be of more use to him and awaited the opportunity.

Early one Sunday in May we set out for a walk. Severus’ research was going particularly well – he was working on modernizing some ancient antidotes to even ancienter poisons – and he was in a relaxed and almost cheerful mood. Serrebrunne followed behind us, frisking along the path. After half an hour of walking, however, we saw that weather predictions were wrong and it was going to be a freak spring scorcher. Severus had abandoned his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and I was admiring his wiry forearms and bony wrists. I took his hand and dropped a kiss on his inner arm. Both my face and his arm were sticky. He looked at me.

“You’re glowing,” he said.

 

“That’s very delicate of you,” I said. “I think I’m sweating. Your shirt is soaked. Let’s go home before we get dehydrated.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely and cool in your bed.”

I giggled; we usually made these advances more obliquely. “Okay.”

Indeed, it was lovely and cool in my room. We threw our damp clothes in a pile and toweled off before we even felt like touching.

“Should I take a shower?” I asked.

“No, I like you natural. Should I?”

“No, the same.”

In fact, it was so cool in my room that Severus’ body shocked me when we embraced as if he had stored up the radiant heat from outside. I drew my hands down his ribs, enjoying his long lines. He stood for a minute, his nose in my hair, before taking control.

“Lie down.” He turned me toward the bed.

He liked to boss me and I liked to play at resistance. “You’re very bossy. What if I say no?”

He turned me back and stared down grimly, and, for a moment, I felt a twinge of alarm. Sometimes I forgot that he was a very powerful wizard.

“Miss Desrosiers. Ten points from Griffindor for insubordination.” This was self-parody – very unusual for him -- and made me laugh again. “Now,” he said softly _and_ threateningly. “Will you come to bed?”

The heat of the day had made us wanton. I knelt up and held my heels, arching back to offer my breasts. I imagined how this looked to Severus, my nipples so pink and pointy. His vocal appreciation of my breasts had made me appreciate them as well. He growled and loomed over me to take their tips in his mouth. With a gasp I let my head fall back, opening my chest more. He sucked them each in turn, still growling. I reached forward and gently stroked his cock to full attention, making little hums of appreciation.

Running his hands up the insides of my thighs he quoted, “License my roving hands and let them go…”

“John Donne,” I said faintly.

“Correct.” He teased me by stroking my mound lightly.

There is something that wizards do that is very intimate. Some wizards never do it. I had never done it, not with Guy or anyone else.

Severus did it to me now. He took his wand from the bedside table and touched me with it.

He touched it to the side of my neck and drew it down between my breasts, over my belly, into the crease of my thigh and down the inside of my leg. It left a silvery trail on my skin. The tip of it was cool; the thought of it made me quiver.

He held it up, en garde, before my face. Black, elegant, with two thin mother of pearl bands at the handle -- in his hand it was a very strong wand. The waves of magic rolling off it faintly brushed my skin.

“Whose are you?” he asked.

“Yours." And the pleasure lay not only in his claiming of me but also in knowing his joy of it.

“Yes,” he hissed. He drew his wand back up my body, slickly between my labia, up the center of my belly, my throat, and my lips. I put out my tongue and licked it, eyes on his, and caught his answering shudder.

He kneeled before me, interlacing our legs, and pulled me tight against him. A jolt of pleasure ran through me at the scent and feel of him and the cold line of the ebony wand across my back. He gathered my hair in his fist and used it to hold my head as he kissed me.

As always, there was a feeling of utter concentration in these kisses, as if physical mastery of the process were crucial. Just as I began to wonder if I were present to him, he took my earlobe between his lips then whispered against my neck, “Dear Girl.” His free hand traced the curve of my hip, cupping my buttock and pulling me closer to rub against him.

I ran my hands down his back and held his ass, so small and tight in my palms. We knelt for a long time, belly to belly, the length of Sunday afternoon stretching out before us. I licked his shoulder, his neck, his nipples. I pulled his hair and nipped at his throat. He stroked my arse, my thighs, my nipples, sighing at each.

“Here.” He settled me back against the pillows and sat between my legs, bending to rest his cheek on my belly. Inhaling deeply, he rubbed his nose against my curls, then gently parted my labia and kissed my clit with soft lips. I hissed with anticipation and he touched it with his tongue, but withdrew and nuzzled the insides of my thighs instead. I raised my pussy to encourage him.

Now he was teasing me – or teasing himself, for my efforts to get him on the job quickened his breath as well. He rested his cheek for a moment on my mound and I rubbed against him with a pleading squeak. More soft kisses and gentle bites on my tender thighs, more small begging noises. Then he yielded, licking me with long strokes while streams of brightly colored pleasure ran like flags through my body. More, and more.

I began climbing toward orgasm. “Not yet,” he gasped, backing away, enjoying his control of me, and, perhaps, of himself. He kissed my mouth, tasting of my own salty juices, laying his hand soothingly over my swollen labia. I pushed myself into him. He raised his head and gave me a smirk.

“You devil,” I gasped. “You are tormenting me.” Raised eyebrows and a little nod. And I smiled back; it was my gift to him that he could.

Now he showed me the wand again, looking darkly into my eyes. Something serious. Kissed his way down my chest, my belly, my wet fur, to bury his tongue again in that most sensitive spot and now it was like lightening and almost too much. His fingers inside me firmly rubbed a special place he had found. Something cold and hard slid up my passage. _The handle of his wand._ He brought it all the way to the end and without breaking the rhythm of his tongue began tapping it sharply, sending vibrations through me. The sensation, the idea, was electric.

“Oh Gods, Oh Gods, Severus.” I hoped to Merlin he wasn’t going to stop again. Licking me, licking me, so intent, and his black wand – there – oh and OH and I came, arching so hard I snapped his head up.

For a while I lay against the pillows, sweat cooling on my skin, my breath slowing. He watched me. I liked that. His wand, slightly sticky, lay against my inner thigh under his hand. After a while he rested his cheek on my belly, rising and falling with my breath. I found his jaw without opening my eyes and urged him up higher to nuzzle my face. We still had the rest of Sunday afternoon.

I took time stoking the fire he had banked. I wanted him to have everything he liked. I pulled his head back and licked his neck, breathing in his scent, the particular fragrance of his hair, which was different behind his ears than at the nape of his neck, and different again from the patch of short hairs at the center of his chest. I flicked his nipples lightly with my tongue, then sucked hard. He writhed, bringing his prick against my hip and seeking friction there.

My turn to tease, pulling away and stroking him but too lightly. He whined in the back of his throat and thrust into my hand, but again I refused him the pressure he sought. I rolled his balls in their sac --“Ah!” – a little harder – “Ah, AH!” – then stopped.

“Vixen –“

“Yes,” I grinned.

I grasped his hips between my legs, rolling him over while bringing his arms up and holding them above his head. My turn in charge. He lay under me, tousled, panting and intent.

“Severus,” I caressed his name. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“I make a rather scrawny Adonis –“

“ _Shh –_ “ I covered his mouth with my fingertips. “Listen to me. Look how your hair is spread out here, all black and shiny. Your skin is like new butter, so smooth and pale. Except for this color, here –“ And I touched his cheek. “— that comes from loving me and lusting for me. It’s beautiful.

“I love your nose. It’s perfect for you. No one else looks like you. Your eyes are so black, like the sea at night. I could fall into them. So beautiful –“

I was hurting him, it showed in his face, and I knew that to be praised and loved now must recall every time he had been made to feel ugly and unwelcome before. He couldn’t believe me. Yet I had to.

“Listen to me,” I whispered, nuzzling and kissing his nose. “I could look at you all day. Just look at your sexy wrists, your gorgeous long fingers –“ I brought them down and placed them over my breasts. “Your broad bony shoulders, your little irresistible nipples –“ I brushed them with my thumbs, sending a tremor through him that I could feel in my legs. I was making love to him with my words, but his face said, No.

“Please take this from me, Severus,” I said. “I can tell you and tell you, but you keep it out. Please let it in.”

He lay still, watching with eyes like open windows, still panting with lust.

“Listen to me. Beautiful man,” I murmured, stroking him. “Beautiful Severus.”

Something was working in his face, the pain transforming into something wide open, like wonder or fear. Taking a breath he stretched out his hand and called softly, “Accio wand.”

I felt him thrust something into my hand, and with an electric shock of understanding knew --

It was _my_ wand.

Never taking his eyes from mine, he turned his face and bared his neck, lip curled in pain or passion, I could not tell. I l saw right into the heart of his integrity and courage and it moved me nearly to tears.

And aroused me unbearably. I could hardly be still.

I gently stroked his neck with the side of my wand, around the back of his ear and down the outside of his arm, all the time looking into his face, whispering _beautiful, beautiful_. I caressed his underarm, circled his left nipple and then his right, and his groan of pleasure sent a jolt through my body. I traced the line of short hairs that bisected his belly, and, squirming backward, used my wand to gently lift and stroke his balls. He arched his back with a gasp. Carefully, I stroked the underseam of his cock up to its shining cap and circled it. His head jerked back, eyes fluttering closed with a moan.

Holding wand and prick side by side, I squeezed them together. He gave a soft cry, then reached out and found my pearl with the tips of his fingers, lightly massaging it so that I sobbed with pleasure. My juices coated his hand.

“Oh,” I said. “I can’t –“

“I can’t –“ he said.

“Wait,” we said together.

I set my wand down at his shoulder.

Poised over him, aligning us, I whispered it again, “Beautiful man. Beautiful lover.” Then I filled myself, slowly, slowly engulfing him in my burning sheath on a long inhalation.

With exquisite deliberation, Severus arched his back and brought his hips up toward me, resting his fingers lightly on my waist. I held myself still above him, letting him have a few long strokes, then settling myself on him, claiming the right to love him at my pace. I put my hands on his shoulders and held him down.

Afterwards, we had a nap. After all, it was Sunday. He curled up around me, and when I woke he was across the room marking essays. I called him. Barefoot, in trousers and shirtsleeves, he sat on the edge of the bed. A wide smile crinkled his eyes and uncovered his crooked teeth. No sarcasm, no commentary, no hiding. We didn’t have to spell it out. He had got some of it after all.

At staff meeting the following Friday Severus stood by the window as he often did, turned as much from the assemblage as he could without being inarguably insulting. He had taken his wand out and held it lightly in his fingers, fidgeting. Professor Trelawney was applying her prophetic gift to some rather minor scheduling matters for the coming term. Severus caught my eye to signal his irritation. I held his look for a moment, flicked my eyes toward the wand, then back to him. To my surprise, his eyes widened just noticeably and two spots of color appeared on his cheeks.

For years afterward it was a joke we made but never mentioned – the glance at the wand, the tap of the wand, with or without eye contact, even the flick of the eye at the wand pocket, all meaning, I am thinking of you _that way._

 

*****

 

 _Some nights when the crickets are silent the castle is so quiet that the rustle of a sheet wakes you to your lover._

 _“Shh, are you having a bad night?” Soft whispers seem loud on nights like this._

 _“Not bad, no."_

 _“Do you want to talk?"_

 _“I want you to tell me how your mother died.” Spoken very low._

 _I sigh. “I knew you would ask me sometime. I’m afraid to tell.”_

 _“Afraid for me.”_

 _“Yes.”_

 _“What if I already know?”_

 _“Guessed?”_

 _“Guessed, and worked out, and guessed why you’ve not told me.”_

 _“What she did had nothing to do with you. It was her. It was her choice.”_

 _“Tell me when you knew.”_

 _“Not then. When I went home for the solstice there was something different about her. She was excited, feverish. My father kept looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She snuck off to the workshop at night or early in the morning. She was preoccupied when we were together. But I was fifteen and thinking of myself. I didn’t make much of it.”_

 _“Did she go after them, or did they come to her?"_

 _“I think – oh, Severus, I really do – I think she went to them. The summer before, she was so dissatisfied and restless. Do you know, that year she had several wands at the Museum of Magical Artifacts. It was a pinnacle. They got one of her first really finished wands, a bequest, and they built a retrospective around it._

 _“That’s when she became restless. Maybe she felt there was nowhere to go. And that I was at Beauxbatons and didn’t need her. It can’t be hard to find a Death Eater if you have a skill to offer.”_

 _“No,” he says bitterly. “We’re always sniffing around.”_

 _“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”_

 _“No. I’m sorry.”_

 _“It was an accident with the materials. They wanted her to try things that had never been used. Dark substances. I figured it out from her notes._

 _“But Severus – “ searching for his eyes in the dark room, I can just make them out. “She was like you. She loved her craft. She loved elegance, precision and beauty. It wasn’t for power, I’m sure of it. It was love of craft._

 _“I didn’t really know her, not the way I would know her now. I’ll never know her. And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there to stop it.”_

 _He says just one thing. “Go ahead,” wraps me tightly in his arms and I let out all my tears._

 _The silent dark castle holds us._

 

 

 

 

 

 

.


	11. His Burning Day

PART II  
WEDDED

Chapter 12 (Rewritten)-- His Burning Day

That was our romance. Living together was a different kind of story, a shifting and unfolding, like the enchanted origami of the Japanese that creases this way to form a dove, then with another fold a lion, then castle, then rose, then once again dove. There was no goal but continuous discovery, and endurance and self-mastery were the keys.

In our second year together I drew most heavily on our friendship. Once Severus began asking about my hurts there was a frightening amount to be said. I think he had never helped anyone in this way, and he approached it seriously. I told him over and over the story of Guy’s death, of my mother’s death, of uncovering her association with the Death Eaters. He never gave me the slightest feeling of impatience. He listened and held me, and it seemed to bring him solace as well.

No one entered the space between us. My marriage to Guy had been like a train station, someone always coming to dinner and plans underway. As a shy and unconfident woman I had enjoyed the carnival atmosphere. But the place of our love was for Severus and me a haven, quiet and sun-dappled, and we protected it.

I had several friendships of my own, with Remus Lupin, Minerva, and a young witch who lived in Hogsmeade and took riding lessons, but Severus ignored these. He was neither curious nor hostile; having no friendships himself, at least not in the conventional sense, it was as if he were blind to mine. Only Hagrid was sometimes permitted at the outskirts to the extent that Severus might come along to the Broomsticks with us or stop with me in his hut at the end of day for a cup of tea.

We lived this way for nearly two years -- productive, interesting, comforting years -- before the first upheaval struck.

I had always known that Albus Dumbledore held a special place in Severus’ heart. It was one of deep respect and gratitude for the fresh start Albus gave him when he left Voldemort. He was as close as Severus would allow himself to a mentor or a friend and the relationship worked in part because Albus saw and understood this without comment. He treated Severus with respect and a certain tenderness, even when he behaved badly, and in return Severus permitted him a modicum of influence.

It was early December and at the tail end of a blizzard when Severus came home, threw himself into the wing chair and thrust his legs toward the fire with a scowl.

“Dumbledore is an ass,” he snarled. “A senile ass.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened?” I put down the book I’d been reading, kicked a footstool closer to Severus’ chair and sat on it.

“He’s out there this minute traipsing about in the snow without even a hat. Gods, I despise the Dear Dotty Old Uncle act. He had to be pulled from a snow bank by the sixth years.”

“Well, why shouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s learned by now how to take care of himself.”

“Have you taken a look at him lately?” Severus barked. “He’s practically a skeleton.”

“Are you saying he’s not well?”

“Yes. No! He’s an old, old man. What do you expect?” He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

Then I saw what it was. “You’re afraid for him.”

As always, Severus stiffened when I saw into him, then relaxed a fraction.

“He’s an ass.”

“Mm.” I scooted closer and rested my forehead on his arm. His long, tapered fingers came up to touch my cheek.

“He needs to take care,” he said quietly. “He’s an old man.”

So I began to watch Dumbledore. Three years before, when I arrived at Hogwarts, he had seemed old but unchanging, like a great gnarled tree whose age is a testament to its strength. To the students and younger staff, he was forever old rather than forever young. Now I saw something new. His spotted hands trembled, the flesh sunken between swollen knuckles. His beard was still white but the cheeks above it were yellow, the sagging skin crazed with tiny wrinkles. His neck looked too thin to support his head. He seemed not merely old, but ill.

It was a week later at dinner in the Great Hall that he caught me looking. Our eyes locked for a moment. He might have nodded a tiny bit, or perhaps it was only conveyed in the length of his gaze. Then I knew, and when his eyes slid past me to Severus I was afraid.

I wasn’t the first. Once my eyes were opened, I recognized Minerva’s solicitous gestures -- the fetching of fresh tea, the footstool placed beneath the table at staff meetings -- and Poppy Pomfrey’s anxious evaluating glances and Professor Sprout’s sighs. Which meant, of course, that Severus also knew and was keeping it from me.

I woke late one night to find Severus out of bed. I padded out to the sitting room where he slumped in the wing chair in his pyjamas, feet on the hob of the dying fire, head in hands, his dark hair covering his face.

I crossed the floor and knelt by his chair.

“It’s Albus, isn’t it?” He nodded.

“Come back to bed,” I said. “It’s cold out here.”

He sighed deeply, but pulled himself up and followed me.

The bedroom was cold, too, but the piled comforters were still warm. He crawled in beside me and I wrapped my arms around him, rubbing his icy feet with my warm ones.

“Tell me,” I said.

“He’s dying.”

“Yes. I was stupid not to see. When did you -- ?”

He groaned. “November.” Ah, that would explain his abstractedness; I had chalked it up to mid-term examinations.

He stared bitterly at the stars outside our window, mouth set.

“Sorry, Darling," I said. "So sorry.”

He replied with a disgusted shake of the head. It would not do to talk about it more. I took his hand, still cold from the sitting room, and slid it under my pajama top to my breast.

He turned and met me with a fierce kiss, pressing me back against the pillows. This was how, then. I grabbed his pyjama jacket and grappled him on top of me, inviting his roughness with my own. He kissed me harder, scraping his teeth against mine. We struggled with our buttons until we could be chest-to-chest, my nipples hardening against him. He locked his arms around me tightly as if to force his way inside my skin, scratching my face with his late-night beard. I grabbed his arse and pulled him closer.

Hard already, he writhed against me frantically like an animal in a trap, and I was wet with his intensity. I kicked my pyjama pants to the bottom of the bed and wrapped my legs around him.

He slipped in with a long gasp, then paused, waiting for control.

No. No waiting. No control. I wanted to go straight in through his desire, to shake him, slap him, reach the despair that closed him off. I took a fistful of his hair and yanked his face down to mine, kissing him hard. His reserve broke and he thrust deep, eyes screwed shut, grunting through clenched teeth.

So rough. It almost hurt, but I wanted it. He drove straight toward his climax and I chased him, striving to master and soothe. Then he changed his angle, bringing my legs farther up and meeting my cervix with each thrust. Suddenly, nothing but that exquisite fullness, that melting heat. Two more thrusts that I met with my own -- I balanced for a moment on the threshold -- then tumbled into thrashing, overwhelming orgasm, only dimly hearing his hoarse shout of release.

He rested on his elbows, panting. The sweaty tips of his hair tickled my neck as he eased himself down. Silence, and our breath slowing, my hand spread on his back. In his face against my neck, his deep breaths and heavy limbs, I could feel his peace. I had never used sex this way before.

“Jehane,” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

“He wants to meet with me.”

“Alone?”

But he was asleep. I had just enough time to pull the comforter over us before I followed.

Thursday was a heavy teaching day and I hadn’t a chance to speak to Severus until after dinner. When we got back to our rooms he set some parchment on the table and began sharpening a quill.

“Don’t work yet,” I said. “Come sit on the couch. Did you meet with Albus?”

He stood, quill in hand. It seemed sitting was not on the agenda. “Yes,” he said, looking at the fire.

“What did he want? Did you talk about -- what’s coming?”

He turned, skewering me with troubled eyes. “He’s putting me up for Headmaster.”

The silence seemed long as I struggled to conceal my astonishment.

“Oh --” I said, but it wasn’t clear to me if I intended congratulations or distress.

“Yes, right. It’s an idiotic idea,” Severus spit.

“I’m just so surprised.”

“He’s senile, as I’ve said. He’s half dead already.” Severus took up his small knife and addressed the quill aggressively. I had the sinking feeling that it was too late to avoid hurting him.

Words were so often wrong. I came close and took the quill and knife from his hands, replacing them with a kiss on each palm. He looked at me warily.

“I’m starting to see how it could work,” I said, and I was. He would be the stern kind of headmaster, august and respected. He’d have to give up bullying the students. And the staff, too, for that matter. Nor was Albus as soft as he appeared; Severus might not have to travel so very far to match him.

“You can do it. You’d be brilliant.”

“He’s going to push it through the Board of Directors,” he said uneasily.

“And he should.”

“He thinks they can’t deny him,” he said.

“They shouldn’t.”

“I don’t want it,” he said.

Hogwarts under the direction of the brilliant, imposing, magisterial Headmaster Snape.

“Do it,” I said.

It was a beautiful Christmas. Informed by the sadness of what was to come, the staff suspended their customary enmities and a tenderness hung in the air like mist. The students did not know, of course, but the mood seemed to catch them unawares, softening their voices and blunting their usual jibes and insults. At the Yule Ball, Albus forwent the head table for a thronelike red armchair by the door. A charmed sprig of mistletoe hovered above him and he invited all comers for a Christmas kiss. It was mostly first and second year girls who came forward and a few of the younger boys, but later in the evening I saw Pierce, now fourteen years old and six feet tall, kneeling before Albus like a young knight receiving a kiss on the forehead.

Severus seemed dispirited and could hardly muster the disapproval with which he usually met adolescent high spirits. In the midst of the dancing and hilarity, Minerva threaded her way over to us with two cups of punch. I took mine immediately and was pleased to find that, despite its origin in the common punch bowl, it had acquired an alcoholic kick. Severus stared at the cup in Minerva’s hand.

“It isn’t poisoned, Severus,” she said acerbically. “Or I’d not give it to Jehane.”

“Forgive me,” he said stiffly, accepting it. “I was hoping it was.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I can find you some aconite for you if you wish.” Severus did not take the bait but gazed bleakly into his cup. Minerva softened, tilting her head slightly at him.

“Ah, Laddy,” she sighed. “Hard times ahead. But you must buck up for the sake of the school.” I darted a look at him -- Laddy! -- and found him nodding slightly.

Albus chose the first of January for his dying day. He wanted to see in the new year, he said, and all of New Year’s Day he wore his foiled-paper pirate’s hat from the night before, still draped with curls from the exploding crackers of midnight. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays. It was Sunday, and the staff were called in for quiet chats, one at a time, each fetching the next. Being the most recent addition I saw him directly after breakfast. I found it difficult to focus on my eggs, glancing down the table to where Albus sipped a cup of milky tea. Finally he gave a sigh and caught my eye.

“Will you help an old man up, Madame Desrosiers? You might walk me to my office.”

“Yes, of course.” His arm, when I took it, was like a stick with a knot in the middle. He walked slowly, barely lifting his feet. How had he suddenly come to be so very old?

“I have already begun what I will finish tonight,” he said, reading my thoughts as we made our way down the corridor to his office.

My eyes filled with tears and I did not answer.

“Wine gums” was the password. He leant on my arm as the spiral staircase took us upward to the office door.

“Ah, Fawkes.” Albus said as we entered. “You see, my friend Fawkes will accompany me to the very extent of his ability.” And indeed, the bird was grotesquely deteriorated, feathers in a pile below his perch and those remaining pointing haphazardly or hanging loosely, ready to drop. His eyes were half closed, his bald head sunk between his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if his burning day were tomorrow,” Albus said fondly. He gestured me into a chair. “Now, Jehane. Oh, don’t weep, dear, please. Such a waste. I’ll just have a few words with you and then I hope you have a lovely pastime to occupy the rest of your day.”

I hadn’t meant to be silly about it, but I found that I could either control my tears or speak, so I pressed my lips together silently.

“You’ve seen the thestrals, haven’t you?” he chided gently. I nodded. He sighed again. “The hardest part for me is giving up influence. I’m a very wilful man, and I will miss that so. But I have faith in Severus. He won’t do it my way, of course, but he will do well.

“That first time we met, here in my office -- do you know, I felt you would bring great things to Hogwarts. I felt it, but I did not imagine how. I don’t mean the riding program, although that’s been a wonderful success.

“I have done all I can to secure the headmastership for Severus. I think the Board will be unable to oppose me in this, and I don’t intend to let it drop, even after tonight. But my dear, I would not have done so three years ago. You know what he is, intellectually -- brilliant, and rigorous. He has great stamina. I thought he might even learn to be diplomatic. But he had no anchor. He would have been battered unendurably by the demands of the position. I wasn’t confident he could hold a steady course.

“Things have changed,” he said significantly. “I believe he will not just endure but triumph.” I nodded again. Somewhere in the back of my mind I noted this as a prediction for our relationship as well.

“I’m rather old fashioned in this, aren’t I?” Albus said ruefully. “Telling you to stand by your man. I make a poor -- what is the Muggle word? Feminist. So now let me be feminist for a moment. Can it be an adjective?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lose yourself, Jehane. Hold fast to what you know and who you are. You will need that firm grip. Never deprive Severus of your honest opinion or fear to face off against him.

“You know he is a bit difficult,” he said.

”Oh, a bit.” I found myself smiling, tears at bay.

“He needs you to pull him up short sometimes, I expect.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Ah, good. He needs that. Now, do take one of these peppermint puffs, my dear. You have been a blessing to us all. Take good care. And please send Madame Hooch to see me.”

It felt so natural.

“Good bye, Albus.” I leant over the desk to give him a kiss.

“Good bye, Jehane.”

Nestled into the hollow by Hagrid’s hut, the snow around it tamped with frozen hoof and claw prints, the stable seemed like a cozy burrow. Protecteur, Filleambre, Serrebrune and Salazar scratched eagerly at their stall doors when I appeared; over the holidays they got lonely. Cadbury was asleep, her head resting on her crossed forelegs.

“Hey hey, buddy,” I crooned to Protecteur, scratching his neck. “Come on out now and have a good run.” I opened the stall door, but he must have sensed my sadness, for instead of pushing his way out he rested his head over my shoulder, pulling me close with his neck. I put my arms around him. He smelled of warm animal and his own special perfume. We had known each other so long, and to have him feel with me was deeply comforting.

I brought the griffs into the pasture to exercise while I mucked out stalls and filled bins. The work felt good, letting my muscles do the thinking for a while. Pierce had stayed over the holidays and would come down later to fly with me.

After about an hour, I looked up to see Severus in the doorway. It had been over a year since he’d sought me out at the stables. I wondered how long he’d been standing there.

“Come in.” I put down my pitchfork.

“Goddamn horrible day.”

“Mm. Come here.”

“Bloody beastly boring asinine day.” He kicked a cat out of his way as he entered.

“Watch the school property, please. Have you seen him yet?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. He prefers to torment me by having an idiotic interminable love festival with Lupin. I have work to do and this is ruining my concentration. Don’t touch me.” I ignored him and put my arms around from behind, squeezing gently. He didn’t push me away, but stood stiffly for a few moments, then turned and embraced me. He smelled of sulphur and preserved mandrake, unwashed hair and coffee. I rested my chin in the hollow of his neck and we stood for a while.

Then with a little push he stepped away.

“Arrg,” he said disgustedly. “I’ll be in the lab.”

He took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. Without looking me in the eye, he folded me in his arms and kissed me roughly. Another little push and he turned on his heel with a swirl of his robes and strode off. Feeling dizzy, I picked up my pitchfork and began forking straw into the stalls.

The day passed quietly. Pierce and I took a long ride over the grounds, coming in once to switch mounts. The company of a fourteen year old boy can be very soothing because he will talk incessantly, but not about anything that matters.

Minerva was the last to see Albus, late in the evening. By then most of the teachers had gathered in the staff room and were talking softly around the fire, sharing stories. Sybil Trelawney sat deep in the corner, flames reflecting off her glasses, while Hagrid wiped tears from his face with a striped beach towel. Professor Flitwick perched on a footstool on the hearth, feet dangling, cradling a cup of tea.

“Anyone seen Professor Snape?” I asked.

“Ee went in after me,” said Hagrid. “Then I saw him heading out -- you know, fer one of his walks -- after -- after --” He buried his face in the towel.

If Severus wanted to be alone in the dark and cold to wrestle with his feelings, experience had taught me to leave him be. And the room was warm, invitingly shadowed by the flickering fire. A silver flask passed from hand to hand -- Remus was having a tot right now, and held it up to me inquiringly -- so I slipped inside and found a seat next to Hagrid, patting him on the shoulder in passing.

Professor Sprout gave a choked sigh. “I wonder how Minerva --”

“I expect they’re discussing the Headmastership,” Remus said. A few glances flickered my way. Everyone must know, then.

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’ve just heard about it myself. I’m sure Albus knows what he’s doing.” I wasn’t completely sure but it seemed wise to align myself with Severus from the start.

“It won’t be the first time he’s outguessed us,” Professor Sprout said comfortingly.

“Well, with taking Severus back at all. Who knew he’d be a war hero. Did Albus, I wonder,” Remus mused, passing me the Firewhisky. “Severus and Harry Potter. Unexpected.”

“Not to one who has the Gift,” piped up Professor Trelawney. “But the signs are ill for Hogwarts in the year to come. Very ill, I am distressed to say.”

“Albus told me,” I cleared my throat nervously. “That I should be helpful to Severus. And I will.” I looked around at my colleagues. “Be as helpful as I can.”

“That’s quite reassuring, actually,” said Remus lightly, repossessing the flask from my hand.

Minerva appeared at the door, pale and red-eyed. Pomona Sprout leapt up and offered her seat while Remus took her by the elbow and guided her, folding her hand around the Firewhisky. It seemed to strike all of us at once that Minerva was losing her oldest friend.

“Well, that’s that,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Did yeh -- did yeh stay for it?” Hagrid asked.

“No,” she said. “He wished to be alone.”

We sat like that long into the night, then one by one left quietly for our chambers.

 

*****

 

We entered the study silently, Minerva at the fore, Severus, Pomona, Remus and myself in her wake. I scanned the walls; the exact means by which the portrait appeared on the dying day was known only to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

It was a stunner. Albus Dumbledore, still with flowing white hair and beard, yet somehow younger and stronger than I’d ever seen him. My eyes traveled from the peak of his pointed cap to his penetrating gaze, filled with power and mirth, to the wand resting lightly in his hands. He raised his finger and tapped the side of his nose; as was customary, he would not speak for a year.

In the painted background stood Fawkes’ empty perch. Behind me the actual perch was empty as well, but beneath it lay a cone of fine ash, just now disturbed by the stirring of tiny pinfeathers.

Albus’ robes and cap lay crumpled on the floor. Around them, too, spread a circle of ash. Severus crouched and touched it with his fingers. His face was stony, but I knew the anguish there.

“Soft,” he said.


	12. A Welcome Visitor

We got Albia that night, the night we saw the hippogriffs mating. Perhaps we were careless with our contraceptive spell; there had been a certain incaution to Severus’ habits in the months following Dumbledore’s death.

I hadn’t wanted children. I was forty years old, devoid of maternal feeling, and if the baby had not been a completely real person to Severus from the moment I told him my suspicions, I would have stopped the pregnancy. But she was, and perhaps this was not so strange, that Severus might best approach love by first possessing the beloved intellectually.

“But do you even want to be a father?” I asked one night, having thrown up my dinner and then thrown up the toast and tea I’d had to replace it. Pregnancy was not seeming the easy and natural thing Poppy Pomfrey had advertised to me. “You’ve got so much else to worry about, and you’ve come this far -- I mean, your life is all set --”

“You mean I’m too old,” he snapped. “There are benefits to having older, more experienced parents. They are more patient --”

“Oh, ha,” I said weakly.

“-- and better educated. He will have all of our resources and experience at his disposal. And if he has even half your beauty and most of my wits he will be very well endowed indeed.”

“I have wits,” I protested.

“All right, then. If he’s as smart as his parents and better looking than his father, he’ll be prefect of Slytherin and probably Head Boy.”

 

+++++

 

To get out of bed in the dark when you are eight months pregnant requires conscious planning. Of course, every time I did it, Severus awoke. Having hauled my bulk to the bathroom in the late August heat, I shucked off my nightgown before climbing under the sheet. Severus slid his arms around me and nuzzled my neck.

“I love you when you are naked,” he murmured. He turned me on my side and spooned behind me, spanning my belly with his hands like someone choosing a watermelon. “Mmm.” He moved on to my newly full breasts, cupping them with a sigh. He was rubbing against me in a way that did not suggest a return to sleep.

“Now? It’s the middle of the night,” I said. But I didn’t really mind. In the last months of pregnancy it seemed that I was always ready, despite feeling as gigantic and unattractive as I ever had. Unattractive -- but randy. And Severus was fascinated by my abundant curves and the squirming creature inside.

“Here,” he said. “I promise that you will do the absolute minimum of work and reap the maximum reward.”

“Okay, show me.”

“Lumos.” Severus considered, then arranged me on my side with a pillow between my knees, rolling my top hip slightly forward.

“Sorry about this arm,” he said in businesslike fashion. “Fold it close to your chest. Stretch this one out, like this.”

“I feel like that beached whale.”

“Well you look -- enticing. Round and luscious.”

“Keep talking.”

“Just looking at you makes me hard. This afternoon when you were teaching, you leaned against the fence and I swear, your bottom was so beautiful I nearly lifted your skirt right there.”

“That would have given my class a thrill.”

“It’s gorgeous, so plump --”

“So huge.”

“If you will not accept my compliments, I will stop issuing them.”

“Okay, gorgeously plump.”

“I’ve been thinking of it ever since.” He stroked my nates appreciatively with his long, cool fingers. “And then you were so tired, and I am such an understanding husband that I didn’t want to trouble you at bedtime. And now my patience and forbearance have been rewarded, for here you are at my disposal.”

We had only been married for four months -- it had never seemed necessary until we found ourselves with a baby on the way -- and I was amused and touched at how Severus worked the word husband into the conversation every day.

“With my beautiful backside.”

“Especially your beautiful backside,” he said, leaning down and biting it lightly. “Don’t move. I’ve got you perfectly arranged.”

Returning his hand to my breast, he rubbed his thumb over my nipple.

“Mmm, Sweetheart,” I said. “Harder.”

“I told you not to do any work. That includes directing.” He ran his palms over me in long strokes, mapping the roundness of my belly, my hips and my waist.

Instead of reaching over my hip, he slid down and brought his hand up between my legs from the back, stroking my mons rhythmically until my lips moistened and opened to admit his tapered fingers. His face rested in the curve of my waist and I felt his utter concentration. I was treasured, and that excited me as much as his soft persistent touch.

“Oh -- that’s nice.”

“You’re all swollen. Like a flower.”

“Oh. Like that! Sorry.”

“I already knew that,” he said smugly.

“Yes, of c -- uh.”

He kept that up until I was having serious trouble not moving, then crept up the bed again, to lie behind and against me with a hiss of pleasure. I kept still as he got the angle right and slowly entered me from behind.

“Ah -- you are so hot inside.”

“Mmm. This is lovely. Take your time.”

“I will have to take my time, or else risk throwing out my back.” He punctuated this with a twisty little thrust that made me gasp.

I pulled my knees up to let him get deeper; he answered me with a groan.

“I concede,” he said breathlessly. “That your unauthorized movement provides -- an improvement.” His hand on my belly drew me even closer. So deep, and then that hand wandered down to rub my erect clit and I -- oh OH. Another short, deep thrust.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Or we’ll have to start all over again.”

“Not moving,” I answered, even more aroused at being pent up.

Now a series of shallow thrusts, then he took me by the hips and screwed his cock in deeply with a heartfelt grunt.

“Gods! So hot --”

“Oh, Severus. Oh, Lover.”

Suddenly he stopped. More than stopped. He held completely still, pressing on my hip with his hand, holding his breath.

“What?” I whispered.

With a long inhalation he carefully withdrew.

“What?”

“She knows I’m here,” he said.

I rolled over, ungainly. “Was it Legilimens?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to. She reached out. She recognized me.” He remained motionless, breathing carefully, taking something in.

“Oh, Sweetheart. That’s lovely.”

“My little girl,” he said. “She recognized me.”

A girl! “What was she thinking? What was her mind like?”

“Not thinking. It’s dark, no language. But she knew me, she -- sent out a feeling, and -- met with me, and I was familiar.”

“A girl.” I thought pink, little skirts, tea parties, fairy wands. A wave of jealousy washed over me. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Will you love her more than me?”

He came up on one elbow so I could see his face. He took this question seriously, as one who knows the magnitude of disaster people can wreak upon each other.

“I think --” His voice quavered then he started again. “It seems possible that I might love her quite a bit. But I could not love her more than I do her mother, who opened this door to me.”

I was more than satisfied. I turned and kissed him for the first time since awakening, and he sighed. He slid an exploratory hand over my belly, and down.

“Mm?”

“Yes, please.”

There was lovemaking in the weeks to come, but that was our last intercourse until after the birth.

+++++

 

Albia lived up to her name, for she had skin like parchment and a shock of feathery black hair.

She was born in mid-September. When she was a few days old, my milk came in and my breasts, once too small to even have a fold beneath them, turned into distended, painful, Bludger-sized globes. Albia couldn’t get a grip on them to feed. Severus sat by my side, sympathetically rubbing my neck as Albia screamed, red-faced and wrinkled, and tears ran down my face as well.

“All right,” he said, briskly. “You need a break. She can’t do it anyway if she’s this upset. Madam Pomfrey will be over soon to help. Now give her to me.”

Madam Pomfrey! Why hadn’t I thought of that? Clearly my brain was clouded by the birth experience. I handed her over weakly and sank into the couch.

Severus’ long hands were perfect for baby holding. One cupped her back and bottom, the other her head, as he faced her to him and gave her a stern look. She was curled up like a pink cashew, chin trembling and eyes squeezed shut as she squalled, but at the first sound of his low voice, her eyes flew open.

“Young lady,” he told her threateningly. “We are doing all we can for you. Do not increase the level of distress in this household by criticizing your mother. You are to go to sleep immediately, and when you awake, you will be fed.” Albia stopped crying and stared at him, hiccuping, her mouth open. He brought her closer and stared back. “Now. Sleep.”

Then, tucking her tightly under his jaw and holding her there with both hands, he strode up and down the room, humming tunelessly. Albia grunted and rooted at his shoulder, then slept.

Fascinated, I watched my unexpected husband. How did he know this? Albia’s thick tuft of black hair disappeared against his coat. I saw only his hands splayed across her green sweater and her wet black lashes against her cheek. Then as he turned, he caught my eye and raised his eyebrows with a smirk. I loved him terribly – he would keep us safe and take care of us – then a sharp prickling shot through my breasts and my nightgown was drenched with milk.


	13. Hippogriffs in Love

PART II  
WEDDED

Chapter 12 (Rewritten)-- His Burning Day

That was our romance. Living together was a different kind of story, a shifting and unfolding, like the enchanted origami of the Japanese that creases this way to form a dove, then with another fold a lion, then castle, then rose, then once again dove. There was no goal but continuous discovery, and endurance and self-mastery were the keys.

In our second year together I drew most heavily on our friendship. Once Severus began asking about my hurts there was a frightening amount to be said. I think he had never helped anyone in this way, and he approached it seriously. I told him over and over the story of Guy’s death, of my mother’s death, of uncovering her association with the Death Eaters. He never gave me the slightest feeling of impatience. He listened and held me, and it seemed to bring him solace as well.

No one entered the space between us. My marriage to Guy had been like a train station, someone always coming to dinner and plans underway. As a shy and unconfident woman I had enjoyed the carnival atmosphere. But the place of our love was for Severus and me a haven, quiet and sun-dappled, and we protected it.

I had several friendships of my own, with Remus Lupin, Minerva, and a young witch who lived in Hogsmeade and took riding lessons, but Severus ignored these. He was neither curious nor hostile; having no friendships himself, at least not in the conventional sense, it was as if he were blind to mine. Only Hagrid was sometimes permitted at the outskirts to the extent that Severus might come along to the Broomsticks with us or stop with me in his hut at the end of day for a cup of tea.

We lived this way for nearly two years -- productive, interesting, comforting years -- before the first upheaval struck.

I had always known that Albus Dumbledore held a special place in Severus’ heart. It was one of deep respect and gratitude for the fresh start Albus gave him when he left Voldemort. He was as close as Severus would allow himself to a mentor or a friend and the relationship worked in part because Albus saw and understood this without comment. He treated Severus with respect and a certain tenderness, even when he behaved badly, and in return Severus permitted him a modicum of influence.

It was early December and at the tail end of a blizzard when Severus came home, threw himself into the wing chair and thrust his legs toward the fire with a scowl.

“Dumbledore is an ass,” he snarled. “A senile ass.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened?” I put down the book I’d been reading, kicked a footstool closer to Severus’ chair and sat on it.

“He’s out there this minute traipsing about in the snow without even a hat. Gods, I despise the Dear Dotty Old Uncle act. He had to be pulled from a snow bank by the sixth years.”

“Well, why shouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s learned by now how to take care of himself.”

“Have you taken a look at him lately?” Severus barked. “He’s practically a skeleton.”

“Are you saying he’s not well?”

“Yes. No! He’s an old, old man. What do you expect?” He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

Then I saw what it was. “You’re afraid for him.”

As always, Severus stiffened when I saw into him, then relaxed a fraction.

“He’s an ass.”

“Mm.” I scooted closer and rested my forehead on his arm. His long, tapered fingers came up to touch my cheek.

“He needs to take care,” he said quietly. “He’s an old man.”

So I began to watch Dumbledore. Three years before, when I arrived at Hogwarts, he had seemed old but unchanging, like a great gnarled tree whose age is a testament to its strength. To the students and younger staff, he was forever old rather than forever young. Now I saw something new. His spotted hands trembled, the flesh sunken between swollen knuckles. His beard was still white but the cheeks above it were yellow, the sagging skin crazed with tiny wrinkles. His neck looked too thin to support his head. He seemed not merely old, but ill.

It was a week later at dinner in the Great Hall that he caught me looking. Our eyes locked for a moment. He might have nodded a tiny bit, or perhaps it was only conveyed in the length of his gaze. Then I knew, and when his eyes slid past me to Severus I was afraid.

I wasn’t the first. Once my eyes were opened, I recognized Minerva’s solicitous gestures -- the fetching of fresh tea, the footstool placed beneath the table at staff meetings -- and Poppy Pomfrey’s anxious evaluating glances and Professor Sprout’s sighs. Which meant, of course, that Severus also knew and was keeping it from me.

I woke late one night to find Severus out of bed. I padded out to the sitting room where he slumped in the wing chair in his pyjamas, feet on the hob of the dying fire, head in hands, his dark hair covering his face.

I crossed the floor and knelt by his chair.

“It’s Albus, isn’t it?” He nodded.

“Come back to bed,” I said. “It’s cold out here.”

He sighed deeply, but pulled himself up and followed me.

The bedroom was cold, too, but the piled comforters were still warm. He crawled in beside me and I wrapped my arms around him, rubbing his icy feet with my warm ones.

“Tell me,” I said.

“He’s dying.”

“Yes. I was stupid not to see. When did you -- ?”

He groaned. “November.” Ah, that would explain his abstractedness; I had chalked it up to mid-term examinations.

He stared bitterly at the stars outside our window, mouth set.

“Sorry, Darling," I said. "So sorry.”

He replied with a disgusted shake of the head. It would not do to talk about it more. I took his hand, still cold from the sitting room, and slid it under my pajama top to my breast.

He turned and met me with a fierce kiss, pressing me back against the pillows. This was how, then. I grabbed his pyjama jacket and grappled him on top of me, inviting his roughness with my own. He kissed me harder, scraping his teeth against mine. We struggled with our buttons until we could be chest-to-chest, my nipples hardening against him. He locked his arms around me tightly as if to force his way inside my skin, scratching my face with his late-night beard. I grabbed his arse and pulled him closer.

Hard already, he writhed against me frantically like an animal in a trap, and I was wet with his intensity. I kicked my pyjama pants to the bottom of the bed and wrapped my legs around him.

He slipped in with a long gasp, then paused, waiting for control.

No. No waiting. No control. I wanted to go straight in through his desire, to shake him, slap him, reach the despair that closed him off. I took a fistful of his hair and yanked his face down to mine, kissing him hard. His reserve broke and he thrust deep, eyes screwed shut, grunting through clenched teeth.

So rough. It almost hurt, but I wanted it. He drove straight toward his climax and I chased him, striving to master and soothe. Then he changed his angle, bringing my legs farther up and meeting my cervix with each thrust. Suddenly, nothing but that exquisite fullness, that melting heat. Two more thrusts that I met with my own -- I balanced for a moment on the threshold -- then tumbled into thrashing, overwhelming orgasm, only dimly hearing his hoarse shout of release.

He rested on his elbows, panting. The sweaty tips of his hair tickled my neck as he eased himself down. Silence, and our breath slowing, my hand spread on his back. In his face against my neck, his deep breaths and heavy limbs, I could feel his peace. I had never used sex this way before.

“Jehane,” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

“He wants to meet with me.”

“Alone?”

But he was asleep. I had just enough time to pull the comforter over us before I followed.

Thursday was a heavy teaching day and I hadn’t a chance to speak to Severus until after dinner. When we got back to our rooms he set some parchment on the table and began sharpening a quill.

“Don’t work yet,” I said. “Come sit on the couch. Did you meet with Albus?”

He stood, quill in hand. It seemed sitting was not on the agenda. “Yes,” he said, looking at the fire.

“What did he want? Did you talk about -- what’s coming?”

He turned, skewering me with troubled eyes. “He’s putting me up for Headmaster.”

The silence seemed long as I struggled to conceal my astonishment.

“Oh --” I said, but it wasn’t clear to me if I intended congratulations or distress.

“Yes, right. It’s an idiotic idea,” Severus spit.

“I’m just so surprised.”

“He’s senile, as I’ve said. He’s half dead already.” Severus took up his small knife and addressed the quill aggressively. I had the sinking feeling that it was too late to avoid hurting him.

Words were so often wrong. I came close and took the quill and knife from his hands, replacing them with a kiss on each palm. He looked at me warily.

“I’m starting to see how it could work,” I said, and I was. He would be the stern kind of headmaster, august and respected. He’d have to give up bullying the students. And the staff, too, for that matter. Nor was Albus as soft as he appeared; Severus might not have to travel so very far to match him.

“You can do it. You’d be brilliant.”

“He’s going to push it through the Board of Directors,” he said uneasily.

“And he should.”

“He thinks they can’t deny him,” he said.

“They shouldn’t.”

“I don’t want it,” he said.

Hogwarts under the direction of the brilliant, imposing, magisterial Headmaster Snape.

“Do it,” I said.

It was a beautiful Christmas. Informed by the sadness of what was to come, the staff suspended their customary enmities and a tenderness hung in the air like mist. The students did not know, of course, but the mood seemed to catch them unawares, softening their voices and blunting their usual jibes and insults. At the Yule Ball, Albus forwent the head table for a thronelike red armchair by the door. A charmed sprig of mistletoe hovered above him and he invited all comers for a Christmas kiss. It was mostly first and second year girls who came forward and a few of the younger boys, but later in the evening I saw Pierce, now fourteen years old and six feet tall, kneeling before Albus like a young knight receiving a kiss on the forehead.

Severus seemed dispirited and could hardly muster the disapproval with which he usually met adolescent high spirits. In the midst of the dancing and hilarity, Minerva threaded her way over to us with two cups of punch. I took mine immediately and was pleased to find that, despite its origin in the common punch bowl, it had acquired an alcoholic kick. Severus stared at the cup in Minerva’s hand.

“It isn’t poisoned, Severus,” she said acerbically. “Or I’d not give it to Jehane.”

“Forgive me,” he said stiffly, accepting it. “I was hoping it was.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I can find you some aconite for you if you wish.” Severus did not take the bait but gazed bleakly into his cup. Minerva softened, tilting her head slightly at him.

“Ah, Laddy,” she sighed. “Hard times ahead. But you must buck up for the sake of the school.” I darted a look at him -- Laddy! -- and found him nodding slightly.

Albus chose the first of January for his dying day. He wanted to see in the new year, he said, and all of New Year’s Day he wore his foiled-paper pirate’s hat from the night before, still draped with curls from the exploding crackers of midnight. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays. It was Sunday, and the staff were called in for quiet chats, one at a time, each fetching the next. Being the most recent addition I saw him directly after breakfast. I found it difficult to focus on my eggs, glancing down the table to where Albus sipped a cup of milky tea. Finally he gave a sigh and caught my eye.

“Will you help an old man up, Madame Desrosiers? You might walk me to my office.”

“Yes, of course.” His arm, when I took it, was like a stick with a knot in the middle. He walked slowly, barely lifting his feet. How had he suddenly come to be so very old?

“I have already begun what I will finish tonight,” he said, reading my thoughts as we made our way down the corridor to his office.

My eyes filled with tears and I did not answer.

“Wine gums” was the password. He leant on my arm as the spiral staircase took us upward to the office door.

“Ah, Fawkes.” Albus said as we entered. “You see, my friend Fawkes will accompany me to the very extent of his ability.” And indeed, the bird was grotesquely deteriorated, feathers in a pile below his perch and those remaining pointing haphazardly or hanging loosely, ready to drop. His eyes were half closed, his bald head sunk between his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if his burning day were tomorrow,” Albus said fondly. He gestured me into a chair. “Now, Jehane. Oh, don’t weep, dear, please. Such a waste. I’ll just have a few words with you and then I hope you have a lovely pastime to occupy the rest of your day.”

I hadn’t meant to be silly about it, but I found that I could either control my tears or speak, so I pressed my lips together silently.

“You’ve seen the thestrals, haven’t you?” he chided gently. I nodded. He sighed again. “The hardest part for me is giving up influence. I’m a very wilful man, and I will miss that so. But I have faith in Severus. He won’t do it my way, of course, but he will do well.

“That first time we met, here in my office -- do you know, I felt you would bring great things to Hogwarts. I felt it, but I did not imagine how. I don’t mean the riding program, although that’s been a wonderful success.

“I have done all I can to secure the headmastership for Severus. I think the Board will be unable to oppose me in this, and I don’t intend to let it drop, even after tonight. But my dear, I would not have done so three years ago. You know what he is, intellectually -- brilliant, and rigorous. He has great stamina. I thought he might even learn to be diplomatic. But he had no anchor. He would have been battered unendurably by the demands of the position. I wasn’t confident he could hold a steady course.

“Things have changed,” he said significantly. “I believe he will not just endure but triumph.” I nodded again. Somewhere in the back of my mind I noted this as a prediction for our relationship as well.

“I’m rather old fashioned in this, aren’t I?” Albus said ruefully. “Telling you to stand by your man. I make a poor -- what is the Muggle word? Feminist. So now let me be feminist for a moment. Can it be an adjective?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lose yourself, Jehane. Hold fast to what you know and who you are. You will need that firm grip. Never deprive Severus of your honest opinion or fear to face off against him.

“You know he is a bit difficult,” he said.

”Oh, a bit.” I found myself smiling, tears at bay.

“He needs you to pull him up short sometimes, I expect.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Ah, good. He needs that. Now, do take one of these peppermint puffs, my dear. You have been a blessing to us all. Take good care. And please send Madame Hooch to see me.”

It felt so natural.

“Good bye, Albus.” I leant over the desk to give him a kiss.

“Good bye, Jehane.”

Nestled into the hollow by Hagrid’s hut, the snow around it tamped with frozen hoof and claw prints, the stable seemed like a cozy burrow. Protecteur, Filleambre, Serrebrune and Salazar scratched eagerly at their stall doors when I appeared; over the holidays they got lonely. Cadbury was asleep, her head resting on her crossed forelegs.

“Hey hey, buddy,” I crooned to Protecteur, scratching his neck. “Come on out now and have a good run.” I opened the stall door, but he must have sensed my sadness, for instead of pushing his way out he rested his head over my shoulder, pulling me close with his neck. I put my arms around him. He smelled of warm animal and his own special perfume. We had known each other so long, and to have him feel with me was deeply comforting.

I brought the griffs into the pasture to exercise while I mucked out stalls and filled bins. The work felt good, letting my muscles do the thinking for a while. Pierce had stayed over the holidays and would come down later to fly with me.

After about an hour, I looked up to see Severus in the doorway. It had been over a year since he’d sought me out at the stables. I wondered how long he’d been standing there.

“Come in.” I put down my pitchfork.

“Goddamn horrible day.”

“Mm. Come here.”

“Bloody beastly boring asinine day.” He kicked a cat out of his way as he entered.

“Watch the school property, please. Have you seen him yet?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. He prefers to torment me by having an idiotic interminable love festival with Lupin. I have work to do and this is ruining my concentration. Don’t touch me.” I ignored him and put my arms around from behind, squeezing gently. He didn’t push me away, but stood stiffly for a few moments, then turned and embraced me. He smelled of sulphur and preserved mandrake, unwashed hair and coffee. I rested my chin in the hollow of his neck and we stood for a while.

Then with a little push he stepped away.

“Arrg,” he said disgustedly. “I’ll be in the lab.”

He took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. Without looking me in the eye, he folded me in his arms and kissed me roughly. Another little push and he turned on his heel with a swirl of his robes and strode off. Feeling dizzy, I picked up my pitchfork and began forking straw into the stalls.

The day passed quietly. Pierce and I took a long ride over the grounds, coming in once to switch mounts. The company of a fourteen year old boy can be very soothing because he will talk incessantly, but not about anything that matters.

Minerva was the last to see Albus, late in the evening. By then most of the teachers had gathered in the staff room and were talking softly around the fire, sharing stories. Sybil Trelawney sat deep in the corner, flames reflecting off her glasses, while Hagrid wiped tears from his face with a striped beach towel. Professor Flitwick perched on a footstool on the hearth, feet dangling, cradling a cup of tea.

“Anyone seen Professor Snape?” I asked.

“Ee went in after me,” said Hagrid. “Then I saw him heading out -- you know, fer one of his walks -- after -- after --” He buried his face in the towel.

If Severus wanted to be alone in the dark and cold to wrestle with his feelings, experience had taught me to leave him be. And the room was warm, invitingly shadowed by the flickering fire. A silver flask passed from hand to hand -- Remus was having a tot right now, and held it up to me inquiringly -- so I slipped inside and found a seat next to Hagrid, patting him on the shoulder in passing.

Professor Sprout gave a choked sigh. “I wonder how Minerva --”

“I expect they’re discussing the Headmastership,” Remus said. A few glances flickered my way. Everyone must know, then.

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’ve just heard about it myself. I’m sure Albus knows what he’s doing.” I wasn’t completely sure but it seemed wise to align myself with Severus from the start.

“It won’t be the first time he’s outguessed us,” Professor Sprout said comfortingly.

“Well, with taking Severus back at all. Who knew he’d be a war hero. Did Albus, I wonder,” Remus mused, passing me the Firewhisky. “Severus and Harry Potter. Unexpected.”

“Not to one who has the Gift,” piped up Professor Trelawney. “But the signs are ill for Hogwarts in the year to come. Very ill, I am distressed to say.”

“Albus told me,” I cleared my throat nervously. “That I should be helpful to Severus. And I will.” I looked around at my colleagues. “Be as helpful as I can.”

“That’s quite reassuring, actually,” said Remus lightly, repossessing the flask from my hand.

Minerva appeared at the door, pale and red-eyed. Pomona Sprout leapt up and offered her seat while Remus took her by the elbow and guided her, folding her hand around the Firewhisky. It seemed to strike all of us at once that Minerva was losing her oldest friend.

“Well, that’s that,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Did yeh -- did yeh stay for it?” Hagrid asked.

“No,” she said. “He wished to be alone.”

We sat like that long into the night, then one by one left quietly for our chambers.

 

*****

 

We entered the study silently, Minerva at the fore, Severus, Pomona, Remus and myself in her wake. I scanned the walls; the exact means by which the portrait appeared on the dying day was known only to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

It was a stunner. Albus Dumbledore, still with flowing white hair and beard, yet somehow younger and stronger than I’d ever seen him. My eyes traveled from the peak of his pointed cap to his penetrating gaze, filled with power and mirth, to the wand resting lightly in his hands. He raised his finger and tapped the side of his nose; as was customary, he would not speak for a year.

In the painted background stood Fawkes’ empty perch. Behind me the actual perch was empty as well, but beneath it lay a cone of fine ash, just now disturbed by the stirring of tiny pinfeathers.

Albus’ robes and cap lay crumpled on the floor. Around them, too, spread a circle of ash. Severus crouched and touched it with his fingers. His face was stony, but I knew the anguish there.

“Soft,” he said.


	14. A Dry Spell

Although Severus’ Headmastership had been difficult to navigate, it was the birth of our daughter that nearly sank us. Nothing had prepared me for the grinding mixture of exhaustion, elation and anxiety that came with a baby. I was used to a quiet, regular, autonomous life, a companion who respected my solitude, a sense of mastery over my domain. Albia took over our household and swept all that away.

She was colicky. She cried inconsolably for hours. I held her for the first six months of her life because the moment I put her down she screamed. She nursed for an hour at a time, while I fretted, longing to be outside. Beside me, only Severus could handle her and he had little time away from the school. In the evening when he came home to the Headmaster’s House -- his innovation, now that the Headmaster had a family -- he found me in a state of agitated depletion, desperate to get away from the baby I loved so fiercely. In my mind no one but he could protect her and his inability to spend more time with us amounted to neglect.

At one time I had understood that it was imperative for him to make a success of the Headmastership. Now I felt that he had deserted me for the school in my most needful hour, and this withdrawal of understanding hurt and alienated him.

At the time, of course, I could not have laid it out so clearly. I only knew that Severus and I had become antagonists and that I was too drained to give the problem my attention.

Then at six months Albia began to sit up, her enormous head pivoting as she gravely took in her surroundings. She no longer needed constant holding; in fact, with the ability to visually explore the world, she seemed content to sit for long periods. She was not a smiley baby, but she reserved a special grin of delight for Severus when he came home to levitate her into his arms.

Sometimes the fog cleared for a while, and Severus and I recognized each other as lovers and friends. It seemed to give us just enough comfort and connection to scrape through the next dry patch, but I feared that someday it wouldn’t come and we would be irreversibly separated.

“Look,” I said softly, beckoning Severus to the doorway. He stepped up and wrapped his arms around me, looking over my shoulder.

Albia had hold of the open drawer of our dining room sideboard and was trying to stand, grunting with effort. She got to her feet for a moment and stood swaying like a drunk before plopping onto her bottom. Her face wrinkled for a moment but she focused again, gripping the edge of the drawer with whitened fingers.

“She’s trying to pull the sideboard down,” I said.

“Baby or sideboard,” he said. “A fight to the death.”

Concentrating intently, she heaved herself up again.

“Strong-willed,” I said. “Wonder where she gets that.”

Severus snorted. “Persistent. Wonder where she gets that.” He nuzzled my neck and I leaned back.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” I cooed.

“No,” he said flatly. “She’s not. She’s beaky. But she’s intelligent and that’s more important.”

I considered fussing, but it was utterly like him to value accuracy over sentiment, and I had to admit that the gift fairies had not entirely granted Severus’ wish. She certainly was intelligent, so verbal that she jabbered like a demented parrot from dawn till dark. But she was not going to be a beauty and if the fairies were required to work within the laws of genetics it was no wonder. Her hair was raven black but very fine and limp. Her sallow skin, a compromise between my blotchy whiteness and Severus’ colorless pelt, showed dark shadows beneath indeterminate greenish gray eyes; her cheeks pinkened only when she howled in rage. Even in toddlerhood, when every child sports a little nostriled button, the beginnings of a truly impressive nose could be discerned. I found her uniquely lovely and could never get enough of looking at her.

As Albia grew, Hogwarts was her entire world, and her playmates were the students, Hagrid, hippogriffs and me. Once I began teaching again, her babysitters -- of whom we had an endless supply among the older students -- often brought her down to watch, so that by the age of two she was making her squatty little bow and practicing her seat on Protecteur’s back.

Protecteur was no longer a young hippogriff. Like all magical creatures he might live to be seventy or eighty years old, but the arthritis in his hips and dull color of his beak and talons suggested the approach of old age. I rarely used him for teaching, but in his role of dominant male and Grand Old Man of the stables he was as important as ever. For his part, he seemed to recognize Albia as my foal and treated her with special care and tolerance.

+++++

 

Folding back a page of The Daily Prophet I looked at Severus in the brilliant Saturday morning sunlight. He was forty-four years old, just entering the long period of slowed aging that differentiates wizards from Muggles.

“Do you know, your hair is completely salt and pepper. And gray around your temples. Very distinguished. You could darken it if you wanted to retain your youthful glamor.”

“Please do not joke. Every one of these gray hairs represents a student misdemeanor and I wear them as badges of honor.”

“Mmm. It’s sexy as well.”

“Do you really think so?” He looked up from his omelette.

“Yes.”

“Remind me to wave my distinguished locks at you later, or however you wish to enjoy them.”

“Severus,” I said, putting down my toast and holding out the paper. “Look at this beautiful hotel. Let’s go to Paris over the spring hols. We could visit Thalia and Spuddy.”

“I don’t care for Spuddy,” Severus answered, peering at the page I offered. He took it from me, held it at arms’ length and grunted. “Accio glasses.” Settling them on his nose, he examined the photo. “Victorian. Bad plumbing and drafty rooms.”

“Spuddy likes you. He thinks you’re brilliant. Anyway, you’d only get one night of him, probably.”

“What would Albia do in a late Victorian hotel?”

“I wasn’t thinking of taking Albia.” He looked at me, surprised. “She’s three and a half years old and I can’t imagine anything that would make two people happier than to have her stay at Hagrid’s for a few nights. No, make that that four people. Well, at least three.”

Severus hiked his chair closer to mine and slid his hand inside my tee shirt. “Four.”

“You’ll go?”

“If you’ll make the arrangements. I’ll have some work to do here, first, so we’ll need to go by Portkey midweek. Are you sure Hagrid can cope with her?”

“Sweetheart, is she more challenging than a Norwegian dragon or a Blast-Ended Screwt?”

“Not since she’s out of nappies,” he said slyly.

Hearing her name, Albia trotted into the room. As usual, she went right to Severus and took up her spot in his lap. As usual, he made room for her without hesitation, laying The Prophet on top of The Chronicle of Magical Education. She helped herself to a piece of bacon, then made an attempt on his mug.

“No, Albia,” he said. “No coffee for little girls.” She gave up without a struggle; it had only been a test anyway.

“Where you go-nin?” she asked.

“Your mother and I are going to Paris, which is the capital city of France. You will get to stay with Hagrid. At his house.”

“I want to go to Pawis.”

“If you went to Paris, you would have to go to boring museums and be very quiet. You would have to go to restaurants and use restaurant manners. If you stay with Hagrid, he will throw you and catch you and you can eat stew and porridge with sugar at his table and help him feed the animals.”

“Den I will stay wis ‘Tecter.”

“You may visit Protecteur many times every day. But you will sleep in a big-girl bed at Hagrid’s house.”

“I want to go wis you.” Her little mouth turned down, lip trembling.

“That is out of the question.” Despite his firm tone, I knew that this troubled him quite a bit. “But we will bring you a present.”

“Is it a toy?”

“Yes. We will only be away for three sleeps and then we will come back.” She leaned away and examined his face, checking for sincerity or a new angle of approach.

“Otay.” She nestled into his chest and he gently removed the bacon she was about to press against his coat.

“Albia?” he asked.

“’Es?”

“What is the capital city of France?”

“Pawis.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin.” She grinned, showing a row of tiny pearls.

But we did not go to Paris. A deferred maintenance crisis which promised to resolve itself the very next day for five days running ate up our spring holidays in a dreary slog of rusted pipes and dirty puddles.

+++++

 

At three-and-a-half, Albia passed through an especially contrary stage. Every request for cooperation provoked resistance, and I’d fairly well given up trying to get her washed or appropriately dressed. She went around with blackened pancake syrup on her face, nails packed with dirt, dressed in snow boots and a bathing suit or a tutu and a Chocolate Frogs tee shirt, until Severus arrived home to apply a firm word and a wet flannel. Despite my many opportunities to yield, she managed to be in a screaming rage with me several times a day.

“Hello,” I said as Severus came in the door. Wednesday was my free day, and I’d been with Albia for ten hours in a state of mutual hostility. “When you are ready, would you mind putting your child in the bath and getting the manure out of her hair? She won’t let me.”

“Do you mind if I put down my parchments?”

“I did say when you are ready.”

“Yes you did. ‘Hello, Severus, how was your day? Do you have a nasty headache? I suspected so by looking at your drawn face,’ might also have been appropriate.”

“Sorry, Love. It’s been bad between us. She wouldn’t eat her lunch, then she nagged me about being hungry and only wanted Fudgies. She’s been driving me wild all day, and knowing she’ll light up like a bonfire when you get home is damned annoying.”

“Isn’t that the correct psychology? Aren’t little girls supposed to worship their fathers? I thought it was developmentally appropriate.”

“Perhaps so. The worship gets a bit thin over here when she’s been treating me like a House-Elf all day.”

“All right.” He leaned into a little kiss. “I’ll get a headache potion, then I’ll give her a bath.”

“I’m going for a walk before dinner. An hour, tops.”

“We’ll wait for you.” He was already going up the stairs. “Albia --”

I heard a tumble of dolls thrown to the floor. “Daddy!” I pulled on my boots and winter cloak and slipped out the door.

Passing through the Hogwarts gates, I relaxed. The rhythm of walking and the emptiness of the moors calmed me. My mind wandered freely. Tonight the February landscape -- it would rain later -- suited my somber mood.

Did I love my daughter? Of course, passionately. Sometimes her charm and spirit broke my heart with love. I would do anything to protect and nurture her. But I did not love motherhood, with its relentless intrusions and demands. I worried that my ambivalence would harm her. Then again our moments of fun and snugly closeness reassured me, and she seemed to be thriving.

The rocks where Severus and I had courted loomed against the darkening sky. We hadn’t seen much of each other lately. His mind was on the upcoming Board of Governors meeting and his annual presentation. He disliked the public relations aspect of his job more than any other and over prepared in a state of ill-grace. In the evenings he was drained and preoccupied, and I was more than willing to hand Albia over to him and escape. Sometimes he stayed at school past her bedtime; later we might sit together over a glass of wine and chat, but I hadn’t much to say. More often, he read a book and I went down to the stables. Whatever each of us needed, he didn’t seem to find it in the other.

The first time we had come to these rocks, I’d wished he would take my hand and help me up. I had longed to touch him and wondered if I ever would. Now he was just the person in bed next to me, no more interesting than the pillows. Was this the inevitable destination of marriage? I couldn’t remember my own parents’ marriage. My mother was only a few years older than me when she died, and my parents’ relationship had been so private that I had little idea of what they were like together.

I tried to recall if Guy and I ever felt this distant. In memory we seemed more like playmates and comrades than husband and wife. Severus’ and my marriage was so much more complex, compelling yet difficult and sometimes dismaying.

I climbed up and stood looking out over the moors, reinforcing the Warming Spell on my cloak to compensate for the cold wind. The bare stunted trees twisted up from islands of vegetation black as fungus. I didn’t know what to do. Would this bad time resolve itself? I envied those Muggles with their marriage advisors or whatever they were called. Who could I ask? For the first time, it struck me that I didn’t know a single married couple. Thalia and Spuddy lived together, unmarried, childless and carefree. Of course many of the children’s parents were married, but there were none with whom I could discuss such a personal matter, especially one involving the Headmaster. I wanted my mother, and for the first in a long time I felt her absence.

It was in this distressed and alienated condition that we entered the third crisis of our marriage.

 

 

Notes  
For valuable and original ideas about the mixed feelings of parents for their children, I am indebted to “Mother Love, Mother Hate: The Power of Maternal Ambivalence,” by Rozika Parker.


	15. An Unwelcome Guest

Albia grizzled as we walked down the corridor to the Infirmary, her stubby trainers tapping rapidly on the flagstones.

“My tummy hurts, my tummy hurts,” she whined.

“Are you sure you didn’t eat Salazar’s ferrets yesterday?” I said, trying to tease her into a better mood.

“NO, Mummy, I DIDN’T,” she yelled angrily.

“Poppy, I need a stomach remedy,” I said, coming around the door. “Oh. Hello, Severus. What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on Pomfrey’s desk. I seemed to be interrupting a moment of some intensity, as they took a few seconds to look away from each other.

Poppy glanced at me for a moment, reading my face.

“Well, Professor Snape, why don’t I get on the Floo and see what I can find for you?” she said. “Come on, Precious, I have a special drink for you.” She took Albia’s hand and bustled out of the room. It was an invitation for us to talk.

“What is it?” I asked. His hand lingered on the side of his neck.

“It’s -- a lump of some kind.”

“Oh gods! Let me see.” It was large, just below the curve of his jaw. As I brought my fingertips to it I was uncomfortably aware of how much time had passed since I had touched Severus’ skin.

“How long have you had this?’

He looked out the window. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I noticed it yesterday.”

“What does Poppy say?”

“I need to go to St. Mungo’s for tests.”

“Tests! She doesn’t know what it is?”

Severus’ mouth was set in a grim line. “She thinks it’s a tumor, probably located in the salivary gland. An infection would be inflamed, naturally, and a cyst would have well defined boundaries. She’s making a tentative diagnosis, of course. Hardly the sort of thing that comes up from a Quidditch foul or too many late nights in the common room.”

He still avoided my eyes. I put my arms around him. He sat stiffly on the edge of the desk, unyielding in my embrace.

“Sweetheart, we’ll get through this. We don’t even know that it’s bad news.”

“Well,” he said dryly. “One of us will, in any case.”

Hurt, I remained quiet on the walk back to the house. Severus carried Albia, who prattled on and didn’t seem to notice that we were not listening. It was late afternoon and the excited voices in the yard seemed far off.

“I want to go with you to St. Mungo’s,” I said. “For the tests.”

“It’s not necessary. I’m sure you’ll want to keep up with your classes, and Poppy wishes me to go as soon as possible.”

“But I want to go,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time there was a tinge of regret. “It’s better if I go alone. I’ll come straight back and tell you.” He was holding me off and I had no reply.

He went next day, while Minerva assumed his duties. I was glad to to keep my mind occupied with teaching, and after classes I involved Albia in making a zoo for her stuffed animals in the sitting room. I felt restrained from talking about Severus, but it was difficult to wait without confiding in anyone.

He didn’t appear by dinnertime. I went to the Great Hall and pushed some food around my plate. Hagrid caught up with us in the corridor, swooping Albia up with a growl that made her squeal delightedly.

“Ooo, I’d like teh eat yeh righ’ up.” He rubbed his whiskers against her belly.

“No! No!” she shrieked, turning in his arms. “Hagrid, I will eat YOU! I hab a big ‘tomach.”

“Aw, now yeh’ve scairt me. I’m beggin yeh, Ma’m, please don’ eat me up.” Albia grinned triumphantly. Hagrid turned to me. “Where’s the Perfessor tehnight?” he asked.

“Gone to London,” I said in a low voice. He looked at me curiously, but something in my voice told him not to pursue it.

“Yeh look dead beat, Jehane. How ‘bout if I come tuck ‘er in?”

“Yes! I want Hagrid to tuck me in. Pwease! You can see my animals, Hagrid. But you can’t see Moopy ‘cause she hab a hole and Mummy is waiting to sew her.” Albia piped on, riding happily on Hagrid’s forearm like a falcon, both hands clenched in his beard. I rarely had Hagrid visit us because he looked so uncomfortable with his head bent against the ceiling, but I spent a good deal of time with him at his hut. I was glad of his offer tonight.

“Okay, Albia,” I said, careful not to sound as if I were glad to pass the privilege on. “Just for tonight, Hagrid can tuck you in.”

I was standing in the doorway when Severus came up the walk, striding briskly, head down, as he did when alone. I came out to meet him, shivering a bit in the cold. A brief kiss -- he smelt of whiskey and his face was icy.

“Hagrid’s putting Snow White to bed,” I said, warning him that we were not alone. “Did you stop at The Broomsticks?”

“No, at a Muggle pub near the hospital.”

“Oh.” I read this as a bad sign, but refrained from asking more questions. Instead I took his hands from underneath his cloak and held them in mine. “Your hands are cold. Come in and I’ll make you some tea.” He gave me a curt nod.

He sat at the kitchen table, still in his cloak, hugging himself. I watched him sideways, as I conjured hot water and made the tea. When he relaxed his jaw, his teeth chattered.

“Severus, did you walk from Hogsmeade?”

“I took a walk on the moors.”

“Without a Warming Spell?”

“I wanted to feel it.”

“The cold?

“Yes.” He gazed bitterly at the table. My stomach did a slow turn.

The stairs creaked as Hagrid came down. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking from one to the other, then crossed the kitchen in one stride and held out his hand to Severus, who tried to ignore him. Hagrid held his ground until Severus reluctantly untucked and offered his own.

It was more of a warm squeeze than a handshake, Severus’ long, chilly fingers dwarfed in the large paw as Hagrid studied him solemnly. Finally Severus looked up, a flash of distress and consolation passing between them. Hagrid placed his other hand on Severus’ and held it a moment more.

“Well, yeh know where teh find me if yeh need me, Perfessor,” he said. “I’ll just be goin’ along now.”

“Thank you. And good night,” he said stiffly.

Hagrid pulled the front door closed behind him. The house seemed very quiet.

“The news,” I said. He stared at the table top again. There was a pause.

“As I suspected, it was a cancer.” He turned his head and stretched his neck to reveal a strange, smooth expanse of skin, slightly pink, where the lump had been. “They removed it with Abscido. Healer Caduceus will follow the case. He’s the top man; I couldn’t ask for a better. It has metastasized . He wants to treat me with Celldeath potions.” The bland, factual way he spoke took my breath away and I had to jump up to pour the tea, which I served with shaking hands.

I took a bar of dark chocolate from the cupboard, breaking off four squares and placing them on a little plate in front of him. He touched it lightly with his fingertips and made a small noise in the back of his throat. Then silence.

“When do you start the treatment?”

“Not.”

“Not? What do you mean?”

“I’ll not drink any commercial healing potions. I’ll brew my own.”

“But you’re not a Healer. You need to be able to track the progress.”

“I’ll see Caduceus. But I’ll brew my own potions.”

So. I saw how it would go, and I wouldn’t argue. Despite the risk I was glad that he could do it for himself; it would be so much worse, for him, to be in others’ hands.

“All right. But will you see him as much as he asks?”

“I will.”

“Side effects?”

“I haven’t done the research but I believe,” he glanced at me grimly. “I will be as sick as a very sick dog by the time it’s halfway through.”

“And then you will be better.”

“Yes.”

“Because you are a brilliant Potions scholar and a powerful wizard.”

“Of course.”

“And because your wife and daughter love you and hold you here on Earth.”

He gasped and dropped his face into his hands.

“Don’t, Jehane,” he said brokenly. “I can’t. Don’t.” He rose and turned with a swirl of his cloak, leaving so quickly I hadn’t time to speak. I sat at the table with the cooling cups of tea and uneaten chocolate.


	16. Wedded

When he slid into bed late that night, I woke just enough to catch the cold leaf-mould scent of the Forbidden Forest on his skin. Then he rolled over and turned his back.

The morning was too busy for any discussion. “I’ll be going to London this afternoon after classes,” he said as I poured Albia’s cereal. “I need some books from the medical library. I’ll miss dinner. I shall return by eight or nine.”

This time I didn’t ask to accompany him but brought the coffee pot to the table, softly dropping my hand on his neck as I did. He stiffened for a moment as I refilled his cup, staring at the newspaper in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Jehane.”

Pierce was at the door, reporting for his usual Wednesday morning babysitting assignment. “Anyone home?”

“Come in, Pierce,” I called, then turned to Severus. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

I watched him down the front walk -- his long, impatient stride, grim expression, loose hair tugged by the winds of early March. The mysterious hitch in my feelings for him had gone in an instant, ignited like tissue paper in the white flame of danger. We had made each other’s lives and I would not let our work be undone.

That night waiting for his return I fell asleep by Albia’s bed, storybook in hand. I woke to the pain in my tailbone and the coldness of the floor. I stumbled downstairs to the living room. I must have heard the door close in my sleep, for Severus, in his winter cloak, was just setting a stack of books on the credenza.

“That’s a lot of books,” I said.

“It’s only the first round,” he said shortly.

“I’ll make some tea, then.”

“No, no, not necessary. Why don’t you go on to bed? It’s late.”

“I’m not asking your permission. Will you have some Earl Gray?” He glanced at me with a strange expression.

“Yes, please.”

I brought it to him with a square of dark chocolate. This time he took it and broke off a piece. I set my mug on the coffee table and carried the books over to join it -- Celldeath Potions in Oncology, by Asclepius Caduceus, M.H.; Medical Potions Brewing, by Flavia Hedgewitch and Harrison Hops; Characterological Adjustments in Potions Oncology, by Penelope Tincture, M.H. , et al. and Journal of the British Healers Association, Vol. 491.

“Which are you reading first? I’ll take another.”

“The Caduceus, for an overview,” he said evenly. He was trying to figure me out. I knew there was no hope of catching up my Potions adequately to provide any bright ideas, but I might recover enough to understand when he began thinking out loud. At the very least, I’d sit here tonight and companion him and that, of course, was the motivation he’d fail to recognize.

“I’ll read Tincture et al.” I settled myself on the couch and sipped my tea.

“They are twins, you know.”

“Who?”

“Penelope and Persephone Tincture. The first is a Healer and her sister is a Potions scholar. We interviewed her year before last for Potions Mistress.”

“I remember. I suppose I assumed it was the same person. Silly.”

“Brilliant woman,” he said, settling on the other end of the couch. “A shame we couldn’t get her.”

“And why not?”

“We’re too isolated. She’s a very fine scholar and wanted a livelier academic environment. She went on to Salem.”

I pondered. It was Severus, really, who should have gone on to Salem. One giant mistake, one mischosen alliance, had distorted the course of his life completely. He would never, at least in his attainments, be all that he could have.

“A shame for you, especially,” I said. She would have been a wonderful intellectual partner for him.

I kicked the footstool over between us and crossed my feet on it. He unlaced his boots in silence and sat back, his feet joining mine. He was quiet for so long, looking at the fire, that I opened my book. Some sparks flew up the chimney.

“I’ve had compensations,” he said evenly.

I waited a bit. I touched his toe with mine. This was as far as he would go unless I invited him further.

“Severus,” I said. “Before you found the lump -- that was a bad time we were having. I didn’t know what to do. But let’s not go on that way.”

“Don’t feel you need to stop just because I have cancer,” he said.

“That is unfair.”

“If you have something that’s working for you --”

“I’m asking you to come back,” I said sharply. “If there’s something else I can do, tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “That was unfair.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“No.”

“Is there someone else?”

“Gods, Jehane, no, of course not. How could you think that?”

“Then why won’t you come back?”

“Do you really want me, with all this?” he said bitterly. “I’m not much of a bargain now.”

“Come back. I really want you.”

“I can’t.”

“Do you even know why?” I asked.

“No.”

He glanced at me, troubled. I saw that the impediment was in his feelings, yet not a dullness or aversion, as I had suffered, but an implacable restraint.

There seemed nothing more to say. With a sigh he opened his book, and I opened mine.

Cancer, so common in Muggles, is rare in wizards and greatly feared for one reason -- the stronger the wizard, the stronger the cancer. The means necessary to rid the body of renegade cells in a very powerful wizard can kill him or destroy his magic. Somehow I had managed to avoid the implications of this for Severus; as I read the introductory chapter of Characterological Adjustments my hands shook and my mouth dried up.

No good. If I hoped to be of any use to him, I’d need to put my fear away. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sip of tea, holding the cup carefully. I closed my eyes and pictured us sitting on the rocks come spring. We’d take a long walk and bring a picnic. That was our destination. I focused on the book again.

It was difficult going, but I got the general idea. All Celldeath potions contain common elements, such as apricot stone and Luna Moth. They are additionally tailored to the character, temperament and physical type of the patient. The goal is to administer the maximum strength tolerable to the patient by targeting it to his nature. The book described forty elements of character to start, the adjustments to be made for each and how each adjustment might influence further ones. I was lost after the first tier.

I set the volume on the table, rubbed my eyes and took up Medical Potions Brewing. We’d been reading for about two hours. When I glanced up, Severus was regarding me over the tops of his glasses, a little smile on his lips.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Don’t be snide. I understood quite a bit of that.”

“I don’t doubt. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“You start with a base Celldeath potion. What you add, and how, depends on the nature and temperament of the patient. You want it to be as strong as the patient can stand. He can stand more if it’s precisely adjusted. A very strong wizard needs the most exacting adjustments.”

“Nicely put. You see why I wanted to brew my own.”

“Yes.”

“Not only mistrust of others’ incompetence and stupidity --”

No?”

“Not just that.” He looked away, as if ashamed. “I want to live.”

In the instant before I reached over, he stood up and took the teapot to the kitchen. I heard him heating the water, the efficient swish of his wand and the clink of the lid coming off.

Around one o’clock, when I found myself reading the same page for the third time, I marked it with a scrap of paper and yawned.

“I’m going up to bed,” I said. “Will you come?”

“I’ve got another hour in me, I think.” He looked at me apologetically. “I’ll be along later.”

I nodded, thinking, I’ll get you yet.

The next night he read Characterological Adjustments in Potions Oncology for the first hour while I kept on with Hedgewitch and Hops. I got up for a stretch and to make more tea.

“Are you hungry? I can make some toast, too.”

As usual, he considered the issue of food carefully. “Yes. With that sardine spread if you don’t mind. And do we have any fruit?”

“Let me scratch up a little sustenance for us. I’ll bring an assortment.”

When I was done in the kitchen, I had filled a tray with nibbles for a hungry headmaster -- toast with sardine spread, a cup of chicken noodle soup, an apple and a pear, a scone alongside a pot of grapefruit marmalade and a packet of animal crackers -- everything ready to hand and edible. It comforted me to watch Severus devour it all. We drank several cups of strong tea as well.

“So, you’ve read pretty far into the Tincture. What are you thinking about for the dominant elements?” I asked.

“Primarily bitter and strong. And for a salivary tumor I’d be thinking arsenic -- for the bitter -- because it causes a facial spasm.”

“Why is that important?”

“It produces an expression of disdain. Cancers of the head and neck are especially related to habitual emotional postures. The therapeutic principle here is, ‘Like cures like.’ But I think I will prefer to use herba Sardonia. It, too, distorts the face, into an expression I believe is considered even more unpleasant.” He made a sneering face by way of illustration. “It is very strong and effective, especially in scornful, cynical misanthropes.”

“I don’t think you’re so scornfully misanthropic.”

“It is my underlying temperament, make no mistake.”

“What else then?”

“Aconite.”

“But that’s also a poison.”

“I am fairly sure that I am hard to kill,” he said dismissively. “Aconite, or monkshood, is both poison and pain reliever. herba Sardonia causes painful cramping. Aconite will be effective against the disease and the pain caused by other ingredients.”

“These ingredients are practical-magical. What about purely magical?”

“Wasp stings.”

“Why?”

“Sympathetic magic. Wasp stings -- the swellings -- are like tumors. Pulling off the stings prevents them. Dismembered stings in potion activate a principle of undoing. Of unmaking tumors, if you like.”

“Why not bees?”

“Because it is myself. Wasps may sting repeatedly, bees only once and they die of it. They sacrifice their lives for the hive.”

“Ah. So if this potion was for Minerva --”

“Just so. It would be honeybee stingers.”

“What else?”

“Mummy dust, phoenix feather.”

“What’s the principle?”

“The feather, of course, for its regenerative quality, but I chose that particular regenerative ingredient for its aspect of singularity.”

“But why not unicorn horn? That is also regenerative, purifying as well, and strong in singularity.”

He looked at me aslant, and somewhat admiringly. I’d got back more of my school Potions than I’d expected.

“Unicorn works best on the pure of heart.”

“Ah,” I said with regret. “Mummy dust?”

“Now that is interesting. There are two opposing principles at work -- preservation and deterioration. Under the homing influence of the Luna Moth, the necrotizing aspect of death inherent in the corpse attacks cancerous cells, while the preservative elements of the Egyptian burial rites protect healthy cells. Being so suited to cancer treatment, it ought to be in the base potion, but mummy dust is too strong for many people.”

“I hate mummy dust,” I said. “But if it’s good for you, I’m in favor of it. Is there more?”

“That’s the list.”

“Is any of it difficult to get?”

“Just time consuming. Luna Moth is hard. I will have to go to London.”

“Send me.”

“No, I need to hand pick them.”

“Teach me how to pick, and send me to Potions World tomorrow.”

“It’s a subtle thing --”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Severus,” I said, raising my voice. “You are a Potions scholar. You should be reading the books and making a plan. With two of us we have twice as much energy and twice as much time, but not if you refuse to delegate. Stop being such a git and use me.”

I expected him to argue. But he held my eyes again with that strange expression and a ghost of a smile quirked his lips.

“All right.” He took a deep, professorial breath. “The body of a properly dried Luna Moth is completely rounded, not caved in anywhere. The entire thorax is heavily furred, no bald spots. I needn’t mention that the wings must be whole. Both antennae intact, down to the last branch. The celery colored ones have been dyed; you don’t want those. The correct color is a pale greenish silver. And for gods’ sake,” he said waspishly. “Don’t go to Potions World; go to Galenical Herbs on Diagon Alley.”

It took half an hour for him to explain everything I needed to know about picking dried Luna Moths, and another twenty minutes for me to convince him that he had.

“Not even the slightest bit flattened,” he insisted.

“Yes, I know.”

“You absolutely must pick it up and view it from all angles.”

“You told me that.”

“If you see a dark marking on the body, hold it up to the light; it might be a crushed area.”

“Sweetheart, I will view them from all angles. I promise to pick each one up. I will only bring you complete moths without bald spots or crushed areas, and I promise you that they will be pale greenish silver. I will consult the picture in the book before choosing each one.”

We were standing before the fireplace, looking at the Illustrated Guide to Potions Ingredients, a tome so large that, even with a shrinking spell, I’d need a shoulder bag to carry it to Diagon Alley. I stepped around in front to look him in the eye.

“I understand that the quality of the ingredients is crucial,” I said. “I will do everything in my power to see to it. You must try me by letting go.”

“Yes.”

“Let go.”

“All right.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow. Now I’m going up to bed.”

“I’ll be up in a while,” he said, stifling a yawn.

A little wave of sadness washed over me. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I Apparated just outside the candy store on Diagon Alley first thing the next morning. As we got our footing, Albia was already squirming to get out of my arms; she had been told about Sugarsnaps and instantly spotted the enticing window.

“A mouse! A mouse! Pwese, Mummy?” A rainbow row of sugar mice lashed their string tails at her. I was partial myself to the licorice pipes with puffs of cherry-seeming smoke rising from them.

“Let’s go inside and you may pick three things. But you must wait to eat them until we are in the next store.”

“Otay, otay,” she said, pulling on my arm.

Despite my anxiety to choose the best available Luna Moths and discuss my concerns with the owner of Galenical Herbs, I took time to enjoy Albia’s first exposure to Sugarsnaps. Cases, bins and baskets of sweets were everywhere; candy ropes and necklaces hung from pegs on the walls next to posters advertising Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Beans. Something like a hummingbird zipped past my face. I jerked back in alarm.

“Sorry about that, Ma’am,” said the stout shopkeeper, lumbering past me with a butterfly net.

“What is it?”

“Here.” He swooped the net above my head, neatly grabbing the thing from the air. “Buttersnitch. A new product. I’m afraid we haven’t got the hang of displaying them yet.”

What struggled in the net was like a small Snitch -- not so finely detailed as the real thing, but made of translucent golden candy with frantically beating wings. Holding it tightly between finger and thumb the man offered it to me. I managed to trap it in my cupped hands long enough to pop it in my mouth. It made a tickling, feathery sensation against my palate and I worked to keep my mouth closed, snorting with laughter through my nose, until it suddenly deliquesced in a rush of butterscotch.

“Oh my,” I said. “That’s delicious, but not very relaxing.”

“It’s really for the kids, you know.” He gestured to the tall birdcage behind him which I now saw was full of flitting Buttersnitches.

“No use trying to sneak those in class, I expect.”

“No, Ma’am. But you might be interested in some fine chocolate.” Ah, that would be a treat for Severus.

“Yes, please.”

“Mummy. Mummy! I want dose.” Albia pointed to a bin of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

“Oh, honey, those aren’t so good for little girls.”

“But dose are my choosement. I want dem.”

The shopkeeper solved my dilemma by offering her a sample. Her eyes widened with surprise, and I got my hand under her mouth just in time to catch the green, half-chewed thing coming out.

“Kale,” said the man.

“No good,” said Albia.

“Did you see these?” he asked her, taking down a candy necklace. Each bead was shaped like a little bird. “Listen, love.” He held it to her ear and I heard the faint twittering cacophony. “They taste like fruits and when you eat one, you can sound like a bird.” Albia’s eyes glittered with desire.

“Yes, pwease.”

“Would you put that in a bag for us please, and a sugar mouse.”

“A green! A green mouse,” interjected Albia.

“And I’ll have a half-pound of the extra-dark chocolate. You may choose one more thing, Albia.”

“Oh oh, I tan’t choose. May I have two more?” Albia did a little dance of indecision. I squatted down to see the store from her perspective. Indeed, it resembled Tutankhamen’s tomb, a storehouse of wonderful things.

“Show me what you are thinking of, sweetie.” She pointed out rotating lollipops for lazy children, invisible sweets in brightly colored wrappers (very likely to be stepped on with bare feet, I expected), marzipan apples with little worms waving from them, and acid drops. “Honey, those will burn a hole in your tongue,” I told her, remembering a regrettable incident involving Thalia and me and her younger brother. “We will come back next time and you may have three more choosements. But today you have one more.”

She sighed sadly. “Pwease, two?” But I could tell she was giving up the fight.

“We will come back in the spring with Daddy, and we will each get something.”

“Each get fwee fings,” she said.

“Yes, we’ll each get three. Now what is your last choice today?” She pointed resignedly at the rotating lollipop, and the shopkeeper added it to the bag.

Galenical Herbs was a small shop on a side street. A bell jingled as we entered. Inside smelled marvelous -- herbs and hot dust, animal fur, the ozone that comes before rain, fresh earth, human skin, lilacs and more. I had been here several times with Severus and it struck me each time that just breathing the atmosphere must have a beneficial effect.

Perhaps it was so, for the kind-eyed lady who came from the back to greet us looked both very old and very young. Her round, shiny cheeks blushed like summer fruits, but each small black eye nestled in a bed of wrinkles. She wore two white braids down her back. I’d always suspected that she had some non-human blood, but couldn’t guess what -- fairy? Certainly not Veela. Someone with her knotted, spotted hands should have moved slowly, but she danced to the counter as if to a jig.

“Ah!” she said delightedly. “It’s Professor Snape’s good wife. How lovely to see you. And here is Albia. If she is as good as she is fair then she will bring you joy.”

The fair Albia had bitten the head off her sugar mouse and had some green drool on her chin, but I had to agree. Sitting on the floor with her bag clutched in her fist and the mouse’s little tail still lashing in her other hand, Albia resembled a sleek, self-satisfied cat.

“I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Pink. Professor Snape has sent me for Luna Moths -- first quality, not student grade -- and I have a few other things I hope to discuss with you.”

“He’ll want you to pick them by hand, no doubt,” she smiled. “Let me bring them over to the window, for the light.” She bustled into the back of the shop and out again, bearing a velvet-lined tray of moths lined up in rows. She handed me a small, flat box, a large magnifying glass and a pair of long tweezers, then set the tray on a windowside table. “Take your time, dear,” she said.

When I had carefully chosen six -- and I was unable to find a single one that varied in quality from the others, which made me nervous -- I approached Mrs. Pink at the counter. It was difficult to know how to air my concerns, but I needed help.

“I have some questions. I’m hoping you could help me? You must know a great deal about healing potions.” She nodded, listening. “Someone I know is making a Celldeath potion. He’s using the standard base, plus herba Sardonia, aconite, wasp stings, mummy dust and phoenix feather. I think it’s too -- it’s too --”

Mrs. Pink’s eyes, previously so twinkling and merry, were suddenly penetrating.

“It’s one-sided, isn’t it?” she said. “Must be someone who sees the patient incompletely. No one is that bitter and harsh without balancing elements of character. Do you know the patient?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How is the -- Healer -- incorrect in his understanding?”

Mrs. Pink and I had a long talk. She asked me subtle questions and built on the answers, trying out ideas to see if they seemed right to me. When we had come to our conclusions, I had two more items alongside the box of moths.

“I’ll need a collecting box as well, please -- perhaps that very nice one with the silver chasing?” I asked.

“Ah, Professor Snape will do well with that one,” she said. “It’s expensive but you could keep a snowflake in there till August.”

“Perfect,” I said. “That’s my splurge for the day, then.”

I collected my purchases and Albia, who had been working her way through the candy necklace, trilling and tweeting and hooting like an aviary. As we turned to go, Mrs. Pink called out to me.

“Madame Desrosiers -- you do remember that love is very important in healing, don’t you? We don’t sell it here, but then, you seem to have an abundance.”

It took the wind out of me a bit, to have her speak so.

“Yes. Thank you. I do remember. Good bye, Mrs. Pink.” And we made our way into the street.

+++++

 

That night, when Albia was in bed, we sat down with our books again by the fire.

I fetched the collecting box I’d bought in Diagon Alley. “I have something for you. Put out your hand. Now close your eyes.” I removed three of the creamy orange apricots I’d saved there and placed them in his hand.

“Now look,” I said. “With regards from Pomona Sprout. I put her on it last week and she’s been pushing them in the greenhouse with a Bloomfast spell.”

“Did you tell her why?”

“I didn’t need to tell her; she knows. She knows her medicinal plants.”

He brought them slowly to his face, first smelling them then gently rubbing his lips against them, eyes closed.

“Velvet,” he said.

“There’s your apricot stone.” He inclined his head in thanks. “And this, also. From Galenical Herbs. It’s a collecting box.”

“I’ve always wanted one. Thank you,” he said.

“Mrs. Pink sends her regards.”

“And how is that excellent lady?”

“Ageless, I think. Part fairy?”

“No. I believe she is part elf. The dark eyes.”

“And now I need to speak to you about something,” I said, feeling somewhat like a student brought up before the headmaster for a scolding. “And I believe Mrs. Pink would support me on this. Your Celldeath potion.”

He was immediately wary. “My potion.”

“It is unbalanced.” He was already bridling, nostrils flaring. “Just listen. Bitter and strong are correct. You’ve got the cynical side of your nature, but you act as if that is the totality. You’ve not made a single adjustment for other aspects.”

He snorted derisively. “Cynicism and misanthropy are the totality of my nature. You are being sentimental.”

“No, they are the part you are comfortable with. But there is more.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” he said. “But is my formulation being amended by a shopkeeper and a hippogriff trainer?”

“Severus, even brilliant scholars are open to other opinions.”

“Indeed. Please go on.”

“And this isn’t just about the potion. It’s about you.”

“And you know more about me than I do.”

“The view is a little different from over here,” I said, crossing to his chair and sitting on the arm. I laid my hand on his neck. “The man who takes care of me and loves me so well is more than a misanthrope. The man who insisted that our daughter come into the world isn’t just a cynic. I agree with half the population that you can be a disagreeable son of a bitch.” I knelt in front of him. “But without a few other qualities you couldn’t have brought the school this far. And I wouldn’t love you like I do.”

“Well, you’re an idiot, everyone knows that,” he said gruffly, but his face, as he looked into the fire, was soft.

“Will you make a few adjustments?”

“What?”

I took out the silk drawstring bag I’d carried in my robe pocket from Galenical Herbs and tipped the pearl and the oak rod into my palm.

“Integrity. Wholeness. Endurance. If you are the wizard I think you are, you will admit them and make your potion right.”

He stared at me, blinking furiously, a sarcastic retort hovering on his lips. “’Wholeness?’” he asked incredulously.

“That is all you have ever been with me. Whole and complete. You have given me your whole self. You have never lied to me or hidden. You brought yourself to me whole and you accepted me whole.

“That is what I see,” I said. “With all your damage. Wholeness.”

I stared back, hopeful and afraid. He scowled, contemplating the pearl and the oak in my hand for several long moments, struggling. Then he reached out and cupped my hand in his.

“Dear girl. Trust you to have delusions of nobility on my behalf.”

“I know you very well.”

+++++

 

We began preparations that Friday. The base was, of course, ground apricot stone, coffee, decoction of batwing, hippogriff claw (I used one of Salazar’s, although I wasn’t sure that the temperament of the hippogriff had any bearing), and the olfactory organ of a male Luna moth. The coffee was to be brewed very strong, befitting application to a dark, dominating personality with aspects of bitterness. We had not discussed my assisting; I carried on as if I would and he did not oppose me.

Our plan was to make all preparations short of brewing on Friday afternoon, then brew all day Saturday and into Sunday, as the potion needed attention for a full twenty-four hours. Albia was spending Saturday with Hagrid; I would take an hour off to put her to bed, then Pierce was to take the overnight shift at our house. Of course I wore a monitoring charm whenever we left her sleeping, but I couldn’t afford to leave the potions laboratory if she woke.

As always when brewing, Severus laid out the ingredients in order of use, each in its container with the proper measuring device beside it on the table. Above the moth was a magnifying glass on a stand and a very fine scalpel for removing the moth’s nose or whatever you called it. Placed horizontally above the assemblage was the sorrel wood spoon used for medicinal potions. I sat quietly on a stool, aware that the ordering soothed and reassured him; I hoped my presence did as well. We kept a companionable silence.

The dungeon laboratory was chilly and had a strange quality of sound, each word, each breath, dropping away as soon as uttered. It made me draw close and lower my voice.

“Nearly done,” he said.

Out of his pocket he drew the bag from Galenical Herbs. The pearl he placed in a glass dish at the end of the line, the oak rod parallel with the sorrel spoon, for they would stir together. A friendly look passed between us, then he drew me to him and kissed me gently. His mouth was very warm in the cool of the dungeon.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said.

We closed up the laboratory, warded the doors, and walked through the quiet corridors of the school. It was late. When we got home we checked on Albia, limp with careless sleep in her little bed. Then, of one accord, we went on to our own.

 

 

Notes

The childish mislocution “choosement” I stole from the picture book “Big David, Little David” by S.E. Hinton.

The collecting box is borrowed from Rickfan and from Sinope. Highly recommended!

Rickfan is at Severus_Snape_Fics.com and AdultFanFiction.

Sinope can be found at www.livejournal.com/users/eponis/143844.html#cutid1 (warning: slash).


	17. Wedded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehane offers Severus her help.

When he slid into bed late that night, I woke just enough to catch the cold leaf-mould scent of the Forbidden Forest on his skin. Then he rolled over and turned his back. 

The morning was too busy for any discussion. “I’ll be going to London this afternoon after classes,” he said as I poured Albia’s cereal. “I need some books from the medical library. I’ll miss dinner. I shall return by eight or nine.”

This time I didn’t ask to accompany him but brought the coffee pot to the table, softly dropping my hand on his neck as I did. He stiffened for a moment as I refilled his cup, staring at the newspaper in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Jehane.”

Pierce was at the door, reporting for his usual Wednesday morning babysitting assignment. “Anyone home?”

“Come in, Pierce,” I called, then turned to Severus. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

I watched him down the front walk -- his long, impatient stride, grim expression, loose hair tugged by the winds of early March. The mysterious hitch in my feelings for him had gone in an instant, ignited like tissue paper in the white flame of danger. We had made each other’s lives and I would not let our work be undone. 

That night waiting for his return I fell asleep by Albia’s bed, storybook in hand. I woke to the pain in my tailbone and the coldness of the floor. I stumbled downstairs to the living room. I must have heard the door close in my sleep, for Severus, in his winter cloak, was just setting a stack of books on the credenza. 

“That’s a lot of books,” I said.

“It’s only the first round,” he said shortly.

“I’ll make some tea, then.”

“No, no, not necessary. Why don’t you go on to bed? It’s late.”

“I’m not asking your permission. Will you have some Earl Gray?” He glanced at me with a strange expression.

“Yes, please.”

I brought it to him with a square of dark chocolate. This time he took it and broke off a piece. I set my mug on the coffee table and carried the books over to join it -- Celldeath Potions in Oncology, by Asclepius Caduceus, M.H.; Medical Potions Brewing, by Flavia Hedgewitch and Harrison Hops; Characterological Adjustments in Potions Oncology, by Penelope Tincture, M.H. , et al. and Journal of the British Healers Association, Vol. 491.

“Which are you reading first? I’ll take another.”

“The Caduceus, for an overview,” he said evenly. He was trying to figure me out. I knew there was no hope of catching up my Potions adequately to provide any bright ideas, but I might recover enough to understand when he began thinking out loud. At the very least, I’d sit here tonight and companion him and that, of course, was the motivation he’d fail to recognize.

“I’ll read Tincture et al.” I settled myself on the couch and sipped my tea.

“They are twins, you know.” 

“Who?”

“Penelope and Persephone Tincture. The first is a Healer and her sister is a Potions scholar. We interviewed her year before last for Potions Mistress.”

“I remember. I suppose I assumed it was the same person. Silly.”

“Brilliant woman,” he said, settling on the other end of the couch. “A shame we couldn’t get her.”

“And why not?”

“We’re too isolated. She’s a very fine scholar and wanted a livelier academic environment. She went on to Salem.”

I pondered. It was Severus, really, who should have gone on to Salem. One giant mistake, one mischosen alliance, had distorted the course of his life completely. He would never, at least in his attainments, be all that he could have. 

“A shame for you, especially,” I said. She would have been a wonderful intellectual partner for him.

I kicked the footstool over between us and crossed my feet on it. He unlaced his boots in silence and sat back, his feet joining mine. He was quiet for so long, looking at the fire, that I opened my book. Some sparks flew up the chimney.

“I’ve had compensations,” he said evenly. 

I waited a bit. I touched his toe with mine. This was as far as he would go unless I invited him further. 

“Severus,” I said. “Before you found the lump -- that was a bad time we were having. I didn’t know what to do. But let’s not go on that way.”

“Don’t feel you need to stop just because I have cancer,” he said.

“That is unfair.”

“If you have something that’s working for you --”

“I’m asking you to come back,” I said sharply. “If there’s something else I can do, tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “That was unfair.”

“Can you talk about it?”

“No.”

“Is there someone else?”

“Gods, Jehane, no, of course not. How could you think that?”

“Then why won’t you come back?”

“Do you really want me, with all this?” he said bitterly. “I’m not much of a bargain now.”

“Come back. I really want you.”

“I can’t.”

“Do you even know why?” I asked.

“No.”

He glanced at me, troubled. I saw that the impediment was in his feelings, yet not a dullness or aversion, as I had suffered, but an implacable restraint. 

There seemed nothing more to say. With a sigh he opened his book, and I opened mine.

Cancer, so common in Muggles, is rare in wizards and greatly feared for one reason -- the stronger the wizard, the stronger the cancer. The means necessary to rid the body of renegade cells in a very powerful wizard can kill him or destroy his magic. Somehow I had managed to avoid the implications of this for Severus; as I read the introductory chapter of Characterological Adjustments my hands shook and my mouth dried up.

No good. If I hoped to be of any use to him, I’d need to put my fear away. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sip of tea, holding the cup carefully. I closed my eyes and pictured us sitting on the rocks come spring. We’d take a long walk and bring a picnic. That was our destination. I focused on the book again.

It was difficult going, but I got the general idea. All Celldeath potions contain common elements, such as apricot stone and Luna Moth. They are additionally tailored to the character, temperament and physical type of the patient. The goal is to administer the maximum strength tolerable to the patient by targeting it to his nature. The book described forty elements of character to start, the adjustments to be made for each and how each adjustment might influence further ones. I was lost after the first tier.

I set the volume on the table, rubbed my eyes and took up Medical Potions Brewing. We’d been reading for about two hours. When I glanced up, Severus was regarding me over the tops of his glasses, a little smile on his lips.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Don’t be snide. I understood quite a bit of that.”

“I don’t doubt. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“You start with a base Celldeath potion. What you add, and how, depends on the nature and temperament of the patient. You want it to be as strong as the patient can stand. He can stand more if it’s precisely adjusted. A very strong wizard needs the most exacting adjustments.”

“Nicely put. You see why I wanted to brew my own.”

“Yes.”

“Not only mistrust of others’ incompetence and stupidity --”

“No?”

“Not just that.” He looked away, as if ashamed. “I want to live.”

In the instant before I reached over, he stood up and took the teapot to the kitchen. I heard him heating the water, the efficient swish of his wand and the clink of the lid coming off.

Around one o’clock, when I found myself reading the same page for the third time, I marked it with a scrap of paper and yawned.

“I’m going up to bed,” I said. “Will you come?”

“I’ve got another hour in me, I think.” He looked at me apologetically. “I’ll be along later.”

I nodded, thinking, I’ll get you yet.

The next night he read Characterological Adjustments in Potions Oncology for the first hour while I kept on with Hedgewitch and Hops. I got up for a stretch and to make more tea. 

“Are you hungry? I can make some toast, too.”

As usual, he considered the issue of food carefully. “Yes. With that sardine spread if you don’t mind. And do we have any fruit?”

“Let me scratch up a little sustenance for us. I’ll bring an assortment.” 

When I was done in the kitchen, I had filled a tray with nibbles for a hungry headmaster -- toast with sardine spread, a cup of chicken noodle soup, an apple and a pear, a scone alongside a pot of grapefruit marmalade and a packet of animal crackers -- everything ready to hand and edible. It comforted me to watch Severus devour it all. We drank several cups of strong tea as well.

“So, you’ve read pretty far into the Tincture. What are you thinking about for the dominant elements?” I asked.

“Primarily bitter and strong. And for a salivary tumor I’d be thinking arsenic -- for the bitter -- because it causes a facial spasm.”

“Why is that important?”

“It produces an expression of disdain. Cancers of the head and neck are especially related to habitual emotional postures. The therapeutic principle here is, ‘Like cures like.’ But I think I will prefer to use herba Sardonia. It, too, distorts the face, into an expression I believe is considered even more unpleasant.” He made a sneering face by way of illustration. “It is very strong and effective, especially in scornful, cynical misanthropes.”

“I don’t think you’re so scornfully misanthropic.”

“It is my underlying temperament, make no mistake.”

“What else then?”

“Aconite.”

“But that’s also a poison.”

“I am fairly sure that I am hard to kill,” he said dismissively. “Aconite, or monkshood, is both poison and pain reliever. herba Sardonia causes painful cramping. Aconite will be effective against the disease and the pain caused by other ingredients.”

“These ingredients are practical-magical. What about purely magical?”

“Wasp stings.”

“Why?”

“Sympathetic magic. Wasp stings -- the swellings -- are like tumors. Pulling off the stings prevents them. Dismembered stings in potion activate a principle of undoing. Of unmaking tumors, if you like.”

“Why not bees?”

“Because it is myself. Wasps may sting repeatedly, bees only once and they die of it. They sacrifice their lives for the hive.”

“Ah. So if this potion was for Minerva --”

“Just so. It would be honeybee stingers.”

“What else?”

“Mummy dust, phoenix feather.”

“What’s the principle?”

“The feather, of course, for its regenerative quality, but I chose that particular regenerative ingredient for its aspect of singularity.”

“But why not unicorn horn? That is also regenerative, purifying as well, and strong in singularity.”

He looked at me aslant, and somewhat admiringly. I’d got back more of my school Potions than I’d expected.

“Unicorn works best on the pure of heart.”

“Ah,” I said with regret. “Mummy dust?”

“Now that is interesting. There are two opposing principles at work -- preservation and deterioration. Under the homing influence of the Luna Moth, the necrotizing aspect of death inherent in the corpse attacks cancerous cells, while the preservative elements of the Egyptian burial rites protect healthy cells. Being so suited to cancer treatment, it ought to be in the base potion, but mummy dust is too strong for many people.”

“I hate mummy dust,” I said. “But if it’s good for you, I’m in favor of it. Is there more?”

“That’s the list.”

“Is any of it difficult to get?”

“Just time consuming. Luna Moth is hard. I will have to go to London.”

“Send me.”

“No, I need to hand pick them.”

“Teach me how to pick, and send me to Potions World tomorrow.”

“It’s a subtle thing --”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Severus,” I said, raising my voice. “You are a Potions scholar. You should be reading the books and making a plan. With two of us we have twice as much energy and twice as much time, but not if you refuse to delegate. Stop being such a git and use me.”

I expected him to argue. But he held my eyes again with that strange expression and a ghost of a smile quirked his lips. 

“All right.” He took a deep, professorial breath. “The body of a properly dried Luna Moth is completely rounded, not caved in anywhere. The entire thorax is heavily furred, no bald spots. I needn’t mention that the wings must be whole. Both antennae intact, down to the last branch. The celery colored ones have been dyed; you don’t want those. The correct color is a pale greenish silver. And for gods’ sake,” he said waspishly. “Don’t go to Potions World; go to Galenical Herbs on Diagon Alley.” 

It took half an hour for him to explain everything I needed to know about picking dried Luna Moths, and another twenty minutes for me to convince him that he had.

“Not even the slightest bit flattened,” he insisted.

“Yes, I know.”

“You absolutely must pick it up and view it from all angles.”

“You told me that.”

“If you see a dark marking on the body, hold it up to the light; it might be a crushed area.”

“Sweetheart, I will view them from all angles. I promise to pick each one up. I will only bring you complete moths without bald spots or crushed areas, and I promise you that they will be pale greenish silver. I will consult the picture in the book before choosing each one.”

We were standing before the fireplace, looking at the Illustrated Guide to Potions Ingredients, a tome so large that, even with a shrinking spell, I’d need a shoulder bag to carry it to Diagon Alley. I stepped around in front to look him in the eye.

“I understand that the quality of the ingredients is crucial,” I said. “I will do everything in my power to see to it. You must try me by letting go.”

“Yes.”

“Let go.”

“All right.” 

“I’ll do it tomorrow. Now I’m going up to bed.”

“I’ll be up in a while,” he said, stifling a yawn. 

A little wave of sadness washed over me. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

I Apparated just outside the candy store on Diagon Alley first thing the next morning. As we got our footing, Albia was already squirming to get out of my arms; she had been told about Sugarsnaps and instantly spotted the enticing window.

“A mouse! A mouse! Pwese, Mummy?” A rainbow row of sugar mice lashed their string tails at her. I was partial myself to the licorice pipes with puffs of cherry-seeming smoke rising from them.

“Let’s go inside and you may pick three things. But you must wait to eat them until we are in the next store.”

“Otay, otay,” she said, pulling on my arm.

Despite my anxiety to choose the best available Luna Moths and discuss my concerns with the owner of Galenical Herbs, I took time to enjoy Albia’s first exposure to Sugarsnaps. Cases, bins and baskets of sweets were everywhere; candy ropes and necklaces hung from pegs on the walls next to posters advertising Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Beans. Something like a hummingbird zipped past my face. I jerked back in alarm.

“Sorry about that, Ma’am,” said the stout shopkeeper, lumbering past me with a butterfly net.

“What is it?”

“Here.” He swooped the net above my head, neatly grabbing the thing from the air. “Buttersnitch. A new product. I’m afraid we haven’t got the hang of displaying them yet.” 

What struggled in the net was like a small Snitch -- not so finely detailed as the real thing, but made of translucent golden candy with frantically beating wings. Holding it tightly between finger and thumb the man offered it to me. I managed to trap it in my cupped hands long enough to pop it in my mouth. It made a tickling, feathery sensation against my palate and I worked to keep my mouth closed, snorting with laughter through my nose, until it suddenly deliquesced in a rush of butterscotch.

“Oh my,” I said. “That’s delicious, but not very relaxing.”

“It’s really for the kids, you know.” He gestured to the tall birdcage behind him which I now saw was full of flitting Buttersnitches.

“No use trying to sneak those in class, I expect.”

“No, Ma’am. But you might be interested in some fine chocolate.” Ah, that would be a treat for Severus.

“Yes, please.”

“Mummy. Mummy! I want dose.” Albia pointed to a bin of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

“Oh, honey, those aren’t so good for little girls.”

“But dose are my choosement. I want dem.” 

The shopkeeper solved my dilemma by offering her a sample. Her eyes widened with surprise, and I got my hand under her mouth just in time to catch the green, half-chewed thing coming out.

“Kale,” said the man.

“No good,” said Albia.

“Did you see these?” he asked her, taking down a candy necklace. Each bead was shaped like a little bird. “Listen, love.” He held it to her ear and I heard the faint twittering cacophony. “They taste like fruits and when you eat one, you can sound like a bird.” Albia’s eyes glittered with desire.

“Yes, pwease.”

“Would you put that in a bag for us please, and a sugar mouse.”

“A green! A green mouse,” interjected Albia.

“And I’ll have a half-pound of the extra-dark chocolate. You may choose one more thing, Albia.”

“Oh oh, I tan’t choose. May I have two more?” Albia did a little dance of indecision. I squatted down to see the store from her perspective. Indeed, it resembled Tutankhamen’s tomb, a storehouse of wonderful things.

“Show me what you are thinking of, sweetie.” She pointed out rotating lollipops for lazy children, invisible sweets in brightly colored wrappers (very likely to be stepped on with bare feet, I expected), marzipan apples with little worms waving from them, and acid drops. “Honey, those will burn a hole in your tongue,” I told her, remembering a regrettable incident involving Thalia and me and her younger brother. “We will come back next time and you may have three more choosements. But today you have one more.”

She sighed sadly. “Pwease, two?” But I could tell she was giving up the fight.

“We will come back in the spring with Daddy, and we will each get something.” 

“Each get fwee fings,” she said. 

“Yes, we’ll each get three. Now what is your last choice today?” She pointed resignedly at the rotating lollipop, and the shopkeeper added it to the bag.

Galenical Herbs was a small shop on a side street. A bell jingled as we entered. Inside smelled marvelous -- herbs and hot dust, animal fur, the ozone that comes before rain, fresh earth, human skin, lilacs and more. I had been here several times with Severus and it struck me each time that just breathing the atmosphere must have a beneficial effect.

Perhaps it was so, for the kind-eyed lady who came from the back to greet us looked both very old and very young. Her round, shiny cheeks blushed like summer fruits, but each small black eye nestled in a bed of wrinkles. She wore two white braids down her back. I’d always suspected that she had some non-human blood, but couldn’t guess what -- fairy? Certainly not Veela. Someone with her knotted, spotted hands should have moved slowly, but she danced to the counter as if to a jig.

“Ah!” she said delightedly. “It’s Professor Snape’s good wife. How lovely to see you. And here is Albia. If she is as good as she is fair then she will bring you joy.”

The fair Albia had bitten the head off her sugar mouse and had some green drool on her chin, but I had to agree. Sitting on the floor with her bag clutched in her fist and the mouse’s little tail still lashing in her other hand, Albia resembled a sleek, self-satisfied cat.

“I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Pink. Professor Snape has sent me for Luna Moths -- first quality, not student grade -- and I have a few other things I hope to discuss with you.”

“He’ll want you to pick them by hand, no doubt,” she smiled. “Let me bring them over to the window, for the light.” She bustled into the back of the shop and out again, bearing a velvet-lined tray of moths lined up in rows. She handed me a small, flat box, a large magnifying glass and a pair of long tweezers, then set the tray on a windowside table. “Take your time, dear,” she said.

When I had carefully chosen six -- and I was unable to find a single one that varied in quality from the others, which made me nervous -- I approached Mrs. Pink at the counter. It was difficult to know how to air my concerns, but I needed help.

“I have some questions. I’m hoping you could help me? You must know a great deal about healing potions.” She nodded, listening. “Someone I know is making a Celldeath potion. He’s using the standard base, plus herba Sardonia, aconite, wasp stings, mummy dust and phoenix feather. I think it’s too -- it’s too --”

Mrs. Pink’s eyes, previously so twinkling and merry, were suddenly penetrating.

“It’s one-sided, isn’t it?” she said. “Must be someone who sees the patient incompletely. No one is that bitter and harsh without balancing elements of character. Do you know the patient?” 

“Yes, I do.”

“How is the -- Healer -- incorrect in his understanding?”

Mrs. Pink and I had a long talk. She asked me subtle questions and built on the answers, trying out ideas to see if they seemed right to me. When we had come to our conclusions, I had two more items alongside the box of moths.

“I’ll need a collecting box as well, please -- perhaps that very nice one with the silver chasing?” I asked. 

“Ah, Professor Snape will do well with that one,” she said. “It’s expensive but you could keep a snowflake in there till August.”

“Perfect,” I said. “That’s my splurge for the day, then.”

I collected my purchases and Albia, who had been working her way through the candy necklace, trilling and tweeting and hooting like an aviary. As we turned to go, Mrs. Pink called out to me.

“Madame Desrosiers -- you do remember that love is very important in healing, don’t you? We don’t sell it here, but then, you seem to have an abundance.”

It took the wind out of me a bit, to have her speak so.

“Yes. Thank you. I do remember. Good bye, Mrs. Pink.” And we made our way into the street.

+++++

 

That night, when Albia was in bed, we sat down with our books again by the fire.

I fetched the collecting box I’d bought in Diagon Alley. “I have something for you. Put out your hand. Now close your eyes.” I removed three of the creamy orange apricots I’d saved there and placed them in his hand.

“Now look,” I said. “With regards from Pomona Sprout. I put her on it last week and she’s been pushing them in the greenhouse with a Bloomfast spell.”

“Did you tell her why?”

“I didn’t need to tell her; she knows. She knows her medicinal plants.” 

He brought them slowly to his face, first smelling them then gently rubbing his lips against them, eyes closed.

“Velvet,” he said.

“There’s your apricot stone.” He inclined his head in thanks. “And this, also. From Galenical Herbs. It’s a collecting box.”

“I’ve always wanted one. Thank you,” he said.

“Mrs. Pink sends her regards.”

“And how is that excellent lady?”

“Ageless, I think. Part fairy?”

“No. I believe she is part elf. The dark eyes.”

“And now I need to speak to you about something,” I said, feeling somewhat like a student brought up before the headmaster for a scolding. “And I believe Mrs. Pink would support me on this. Your Celldeath potion.”

He was immediately wary. “My potion.” 

“It is unbalanced.” He was already bridling, nostrils flaring. “Just listen. Bitter and strong are correct. You’ve got the cynical side of your nature, but you act as if that is the totality. You’ve not made a single adjustment for other aspects.”

He snorted derisively. “Cynicism and misanthropy are the totality of my nature. You are being sentimental.”

“No, they are the part you are comfortable with. But there is more.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” he said. “But is my formulation being amended by a shopkeeper and a hippogriff trainer?”

“Severus, even brilliant scholars are open to other opinions.”

“Indeed. Please go on.”

“And this isn’t just about the potion. It’s about you.”

“And you know more about me than I do.”

“The view is a little different from over here,” I said, crossing to his chair and sitting on the arm. I laid my hand on his neck. “The man who takes care of me and loves me so well is more than a misanthrope. The man who insisted that our daughter come into the world isn’t just a cynic. I agree with half the population that you can be a disagreeable son of a bitch.” I knelt in front of him. “But without a few other qualities you couldn’t have brought the school this far. And I wouldn’t love you like I do.”

“Well, you’re an idiot, everyone knows that,” he said gruffly, but his face, as he looked into the fire, was soft.

“Will you make a few adjustments?”

“What?”

I took out the silk drawstring bag I’d carried in my robe pocket from Galenical Herbs and tipped the pearl and the oak rod into my palm.

“Integrity. Wholeness. Endurance. If you are the wizard I think you are, you will admit them and make your potion right.”

He stared at me, blinking furiously, a sarcastic retort hovering on his lips. “’Wholeness?’” he asked incredulously.

“That is all you have ever been with me. Whole and complete. You have given me your whole self. You have never lied to me or hidden. You brought yourself to me whole and you accepted me whole. 

“That is what I see,” I said. “With all your damage. Wholeness.”

I stared back, hopeful and afraid. He scowled, contemplating the pearl and the oak in my hand for several long moments, struggling. Then he reached out and cupped my hand in his.

“Dear girl. Trust you to have delusions of nobility on my behalf.”

“I know you very well.” 

+++++

 

We began preparations that Friday. The base was, of course, ground apricot stone, coffee, decoction of batwing, hippogriff claw (I used one of Salazar’s, although I wasn’t sure that the temperament of the hippogriff had any bearing), and the olfactory organ of a male Luna moth. The coffee was to be brewed very strong, befitting application to a dark, dominating personality with aspects of bitterness. We had not discussed my assisting; I carried on as if I would and he did not oppose me. 

Our plan was to make all preparations short of brewing on Friday afternoon, then brew all day Saturday and into Sunday, as the potion needed attention for a full twenty-four hours. Albia was spending Saturday with Hagrid; I would take an hour off to put her to bed, then Pierce was to take the overnight shift at our house. Of course I wore a monitoring charm whenever we left her sleeping, but I couldn’t afford to leave the potions laboratory if she woke.

As always when brewing, Severus laid out the ingredients in order of use, each in its container with the proper measuring device beside it on the table. Above the moth was a magnifying glass on a stand and a very fine scalpel for removing the moth’s nose or whatever you called it. Placed horizontally above the assemblage was the sorrel wood spoon used for medicinal potions. I sat quietly on a stool, aware that the ordering soothed and reassured him; I hoped my presence did as well. We kept a companionable silence.

The dungeon laboratory was chilly and had a strange quality of sound, each word, each breath, dropping away as soon as uttered. It made me draw close and lower my voice.

“Nearly done,” he said.

Out of his pocket he drew the bag from Galenical Herbs. The pearl he placed in a glass dish at the end of the line, the oak rod parallel with the sorrel spoon, for they would stir together. A friendly look passed between us, then he drew me to him and kissed me gently. His mouth was very warm in the cool of the dungeon.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said.

We closed up the laboratory, warded the doors, and walked through the quiet corridors of the school. It was late. When we got home we checked on Albia, limp with careless sleep in her little bed. Then, of one accord, we went on to our own.

 

 

Notes

The childish mislocution “choosement” I stole from the picture book “Big David, Little David” by S.E. Hinton.

The collecting box is borrowed from Rickfan and from Sinope. Highly recommended!

Rickfan is at Severus_Snape_Fics.com and AdultFanFiction.

Sinope can be found at www.livejournal.com/users/eponis/143844.html#cutid1 (warning: slash).


	18. Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long night of work

It was a long day followed by a longer night. We began brewing, as directed, just after dawn on Saturday. I performed support duties, cleaning vessels, securing drinks and sandwiches and feeding Severus squares of chocolate as he measured, chopped, sliced and stirred. 

It may have been dawn outside, but in the dungeons it was still night, and we worked by lamplight. I wore two sweaters under my robes and thick socks. Severus had raised an eyebrow at my wool cap, but in my experience it was the best way to keep warm during a long, cold, sitting-still business.

First he pitted the fresh apricots, cracked the pits and ground the kernels in a mortar. 

Since animal parts must be “first acquainted” when used in Celldeath potions, the hippogriff claw was ground in a separate mortar with the wasp stings and phoenix feather. Severus held his breath while dissecting the moth. The piece he saved at the end of his scalpel was invisible to me, but once he had tipped it into the bowl, he seemed confident that he was grinding it with the rest. At the other end of the table, I brewed the strong coffee to specifications.

“Measure me a half-liter. I need it hot.” He turned the dry ingredients into the cauldron and began adding the coffee by drops, rubbing with a practiced motion to form a paste. Gradually the paste became a roux, then a smooth soup as he continued dripping. He stirred thrice more, removed the spoon and exchanged it for his wand, lighting a low fire underneath.

“Two milliliters of the batwing. Don’t shake it.”

He poured this in with a flourish. Showing off a bit, perhaps. The alcohol base of the decoction hissed when it hit the surface. 

“Put the rest of the coffee in a beaker.”

“I thought only a half liter --?”

“And hand it to me,” he said firmly. Then he stood back on his heels and drank it while he watched the potion heat.

In the words of Efficens the Elder, the most early codifier of Potions, the effort and concentration of the brewers is “the first ingredient.” Potions to dry up runny noses or remove stains can be brewed at any time by any half-awake witch or wizard with the wits to get the ingredients in a line. One designed to kill off specific cells while systematically sparing others in a wizard’s body must be created under conditions of intense engagement, at certain hours specific to the season. Thus in March, in the Scottish Hebrides, the twenty-four hours of attentive brewing would begin at the moment after dawn. My own focus would contribute to the efficacy of the potion as well as Severus’ even if I did no more than watch.

The base was to heat until just off the boil. Then the herba Sardonia and monkshood would be added, finely chopped. The pearl had to be added at the rise of the moon, and mummy dust, because of its opposing tendencies, at midnight. 

It was full morning when the potion was ready for the herbs. Far above in the castle I could faintly hear the earliest students on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. I imagined the smell of kippers. Hagrid might have been waking Albia to help him with the animals. I hoped she would not be upset at our absence, but I did not regret being here with Severus.

“Watch that for me,” he said. “Don’t let it boil.” I held my wand at the ready to bring down the flame while he minced the monkshood and herba Sardonia together. The tik-tik-tik of his knife was like a clock. 

“Stir.” He nodded at the spoon. I wasn’t quite ready and fumbled a bit.

“Which way?”

“Clockwise, for adding.” 

The murky brown liquid formed a whirlpool into which Severus sprinkled green dust. It swirled into the vortex, then he took over the spoon and continued. The relaxation of his shoulders told me he felt better being in control again. He made a small movement that brought his upper arm against mine; that told me something, too.

Now there was nothing but patterned stirring for several hours. We took it in turns, one stirring and the other talking to keep him alert. It was counterclockwise for an hour with a seven minute pause, then reverse to clockwise for another hour. Then repeat. After two hours I had run out of conversation and began singing bawdy songs. Severus found this mildly annoying, in itself a stimulant.

At noon we were to lay down the spoon and sit with the potion as it simmered. I’d never gone far enough in Potions to study this aspect, the point in highly complex potions brewing at which the attention of the brewer is the primary action. For an hour we sat silently, Severus gazing at the cauldron. I wondered what was going through his mind. Medical Potions Brewing called it “even receptiveness to the synergy of the ingredients and imaginative projection into the work of the potion.” Indeed, I could feel its faint vibrations, falling off the kettle like cold air from a windowpane -- batwing and hippogriff claw, Luna Moth and apricot speaking to each other, and beneath them, the familiar thrumming of coffee. I tried to picture Severus’ body, clean and sound and healthy, the potion zeroing in on errant cells and pinching them out of life. His body -- stepping out of the shower, all black hair and white skin, broad shoulders and long legs. His way of impatiently shaking his wet hair back -- pure erotic poetry. His long straight thighs --

I glanced at him guiltily. Were sexual fantasies helpful or hindering under the circumstances? 

At one o’clock, he picked up the spoon and the oak rod, holding them like chopsticks, and began stirring again. I thought I should be tired now, but I felt refreshed. 

“Do you remember the center of the pine grove?” he murmured, eyes on the potion. It was as if he had read my thoughts.

“Yes, of course.”

“It will be fine there next month.”

“With a warming spell and a blanket, yes,” I said.

He gave a little nod. It was better than any flowery words of love. 

“Sandwich,” he said. 

The house elf had brought us a plate of them. I removed the frilled toothpick and placed half a roast beef on rye in his hand. He munched and stirred.

The afternoon wore on. It was patterned stirring again, with half an hour in each direction and a three minute break in between. We took it an hour on, an hour off. 

“What were you thinking of during the sitting hour?” I asked.

“The potion,” he answered.

“What was it like?” 

“Like a symphony -- many strains contained within a whole. But you are conducting and playing and listening at once. It’s hard to explain. The first time I achieved it --” He smiled at the memory. “It’s an exceptional feeling.”

“It’s wandless magic.”

“Yes, of course, but they never say so. Potions likes to hold itself apart from magic.”

“Silly.”

“And I was thinking of my cancer, and my body.”

“Bless your body,” I said, leaning against him lightly so as not to upset the stirring. He gave a disdainful snort, but I knew he liked it. 

By dinnertime the world had shrunk to the pain in our feet and our spines, the clock and the correct movement of rod and spoon. We took turns rubbing each others’ backs. We played word games and made up challenges for each other. Who knew more poetry, who could name the most curses, who had taken the longest trip or could name the most children from school. Severus won that, since I had not gone to school until Beauxbatons. Severus sang me, in a low, tuneless voice, a very dirty song about a lecherous wizard whose wand is broken by a giantess.

“Now I have learned something new about you,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember such a ditty.”

“You’d never have heard it under other circumstances,” Severus drawled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “But I’m pleased to know that I harbor some surprises after all these years.”

At seven o’clock, Severus sent me to watch for the moonrise, due at 7:12. I was to blow a charmed whistle at first showing. I chose the astronomy tower, where the view was clearest. The warm light from the castle windows spilled onto the lawns and with it the cacophony of childish voices returning from dinner. How odd, the life of the school following its usual track, while we had taken this strange turning.

Minerva was in charge for the next few days and maybe longer. She had been a marvel of tact since Severus’ diagnosis, never asking him to spell out what must be known by the staff anyway, but offering, offhandedly, to do this or that or “take the helm if you’ve something better to do.” I saw, more clearly than ever, that her love for him was founded in deep, compassionate understanding. At one time I had found her intimidating, but I resolved to be a better friend in future.

The stars winked in and out, obscured by flitting bats. As the edge of the moon rose above the moor, I blew the whistle. It made no sound, but I imagined the answering “plink” of the pearl hitting the cauldron bottom. I took a deep breath of the cold air, then hurried back down the stairs.

“I’ll have to go up and put the girl to bed soon,” I said. “So you’d better give me a turn and ease your back.” I took over the spoon and rod. Severus did fencing stretches and exercises between the lab tables. 

Albia had enjoyed her day with Hagrid and had much to tell me about his cookery. Hagrid, unlike Mummy, let her choose how much sugar she wanted in her oatmeal. Hagrid let her eat the meat and not the vegetables. I was glad to hear that she hadn’t missed us too much and let the superiority of Hagrid as a parent pass with some private amusement. She was worn out from her busy day and fell asleep quickly.

Pierce was waiting downstairs, his thin, pale face serious. He had been a tiny, squeaky first-year terrorized by the Potions Master when we first met. Now a tall seventh-year with a deep voice, he was ready to apprentice as a wandmaker, and sometimes came to Severus with questions related to materials.

“Madame Desrosiers,” he said, hesitant to mention what everyone in our circle knew. “I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you, Pierce.” He spoke to me like an adult and I would treat him as one. “I’m frightened , but I think it will be all right. You’re a great help.” He smiled.

When I returned from the house it was nine. The dungeon was cold with a bone-chilling dampness, and dark; Severus had put out some of the lamps. He was sitting just as I had left him, utterly still but for his arm. Now, according to the instructions, a feeling of tense expectation would arise, culminating at midnight, when we’d add the mummy dust. 

“Pierce sends his good wishes,” I said.

“Thank you, Pierce,” he said sarcastically.

It was a long slog. I stirred while Severus brewed more coffee, this time for the two of us. We took it in turns again, an hour at a time, but we were beyond speech, except for monosyllabic requests or questions. As midnight grew closer the air filled with a quivering tension, like a game of hide-and-seek when you know that your friend is about to jump out.

The laboratory clock, with its spindly hands and moon-phases window, showed three minutes before midnight.

“Stand back,” Severus said. The mummy dust had its own little sarcophagus, gilded wood inlaid with a lapis lazuli Eye of Horus on the tightly fitting lid. All human potions ingredients are treated this way because the respect given human remains increases their considerable power, and because they are prone to erratic behavior otherwise. Even a human hair or a fingernail has a specially designated container rather than a standard laboratory flask or box. I withdrew the spoon and rod and laid them on the table.

“Back another step,” Severus said.

“It’s not going to explode, is it?” I said, stepping back.

“It is always slightly unpredictable.”

Using a gold spoon he dipped out a teaspoon of the dust, carefully scraping the measure flat with the back of a scalpel. He replaced the lid of the sarcophagus with his free hand and took up the spoon and rod, gently sending the liquid swirling before tipping the gray dust into it as the minute hand moved to the twelve. Nothing.

Hot. Shimmering lines of heat rising from the sandstone portico of the temple. Squeezing my eyes closed against the sudden brightness of the sky, the yellow sand, the palms so still in the unmoving air as I stood in the shaded entryway --

“Jehane,” he said sharply.

“The desert,” I said groggily. Where were the palms?

“You saw a moment from the life. A rare effect of mummy dust. I’m sorry I didn’t think to warn you. It is unusual.” I rubbed my neck, bringing myself fully back to the dungeons. 

The feeling of tension in the room had evaporated, replaced by a pleasant air of happiness, warmth and expectation fulfilled. Even the cold dampness of the room felt like the first melting day of spring. I drew a deep breath.

“Can you feel it?” I asked. 

“Yes.” A faint smile graced his lips.

“An oasis."

“Drink deep,” he said. “It is many hours until dawn.”

It was. The hours ground on, marked only by our switching of places. My back hurt so much I was afraid to stretch. Still we stirred, and stirred, and stirred. I had been focused on the caldron so long that I had forgotten the rest of the room when a white shape moved in the periphery.

“Mummy.” I started and whipped my head around.

Albia was standing in the doorway of the laboratory. She had come all the way from the house in her nightgown, evading Pierce, who must have been asleep on the sofa. Her feet were red with cold and stuck with bits of brown leaf. I drew a breath to scold, but she climbed onto a stool at the table, her face grave, and folded her hands in her lap. 

“I wiw hep you,” she said. She knew something was afoot, and in the moment of standing in the door had grasped the essential situation. Severus looked at her and nodded. He continued stirring, returning his eyes to the moving surface of the potion.

“We should see a change within an hour,” he murmured. “If not, throw it out and begin again.” 

A long time passed with nothing but the coiling infinity sign of the spoon in the potion, a snake looping over and over, and the soft “phuts” of the flame beneath the cauldron. It was hypnotic, but we were focused rather than sleepy. Images passed through my mind -- Mrs. Pink’s bright eyes, warm bread pudding at lunch, Severus’ long, precise fingers arranging the ingredients, the collecting box, my serious reflection in the mirror last night as I braided my hair. Protecteur’s golden eye and ebony beak. The box made by my mother, Guy in his wedding robes. The sandy lane through our vineyard, and my toes digging in as I walked to the well. A tiny doll’s chair my mother had made; where was it now?

Albia sat with eyelids drooping, eyes on the caldron. I had never known her to be silent this long. The sinews in Severus’ forearm made their formal figure over and over. 

At one time he had been nearly ambidextrous. Then came Voldemort’s death, the agonizing dissolving of the Mark and the Dark Lord’s parting gift to his followers: hideous stinking ulcers at the site that would not heal. He had spent the celebratory weeks in Saint Mungo’s, struggling to save his arm. What must have happened to the Death Eaters in hiding was horrible to contemplate. Now his left arm was weaker and he favored it, but he never complained.

“You need to rest,” I said. The roiling liquid had turned from its original muddy brown to dirty rust; it had to be stirred until it looked like arterial blood . “Let me take a turn.” Severus hesitated then moved aside. I followed the figure eight of his hand for a moment before catching the spoon smoothly, maintaining the motion.

“Look,” he whispered. Albia was asleep, head on the lab table, hands still clasped in her lap.

“How did she get in?” I asked.

“None of my doors have ever been warded against her,” he said. “She has only to touch them.”

Taking his wand from the table he transfigured a bench into a twin bed, made up with her ballerina sheets. He gathered her gently off her stool. I could see from the crampy way he used his arm that I’d been right to take the spoon. Kneeling, he laid her down.

“Lie down for a few minutes, sweetheart,” I said. “I promise if you fall asleep I’ll wake you.” He didn’t speak but crawled in next to Albia, taking her in his arms, and was instantly asleep with his boots on.

Alone with the potion. Ten hours before I would have been daunted, but the long repetitions of the night had dulled my sense of peril. I had reached the stage of extended standing when the spine feels like a bar of red hot glass, radiating pain and too brittle to touch. I held myself rigid, moving only my arm, staring at the endless figure eight with its miniature swells. Severus. Why did I have to work so hard for him? Why did he have to be so anxious, so rigid, so sensitive and prickly?

To be fair, I recognized that he loved me deeply, that he knew everything about me and loved me still. And that I had chosen him with full knowledge of his difficult personality. His bristling defensiveness was sometimes employed on the part of our family. He was a passionate and playful lover, a devoted father, a brilliant intellectual companion. If only he weren’t so hard to get along with.

The potion was dark orange now. I hadn’t seen it happen.

My husband. He was over fifty and he was not going to change. Everything I loved about him, his intelligence, his protectiveness, his rigor, loyalty and ardor, were one with his most irritating and exhausting traits. There was no use struggling; he was a single, integrated whole, a human being, in fact, not a menu from which I could order a la carte.

How often had I known this through the years? I knew it in our first weeks, and again when we almost separated and even three days before, when I had given him the pearl. Once again I saw the challenge that I might embrace to my own benefit -- to know and accept him as another “I.” This was what he offered me in all his dark difficulty -- a chance to be fully human. 

A wave of tingling warmth rolled up my arm and through my body. I looked down. The potion was brilliantly, beautifully red.


	19. A Strong Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They begin the treatment.

“Severus,” I said quietly, still stirring. He rolled off the bed instantly and stood blinking. 

“Look.”

The potion, red as a Chinese wedding, swirled enticingly in the cauldron. He let out a long breath, closing his eyes. 

“Give me the spoon and go check the sky,” he said. Dawn was supposed to occur at 5:21, but for purposes of potions brewing it required the observation of the wizard, as it had long before the mechanical measurement of time.

The clear Saturday night had held until Sunday morning. From the corridor window I saw the first glow of canteloupe-colored light through the screen of trees. A wisp of smoke told me that Hagrid was up early, heating water for tea. I hurried back to the dungeons, grinning like a fool.

“It’s dawn,” I said. “What next?” Severus withdrew the spoon and oak rod and laid them on the table. Expressionlessly, he measured a half-liter of the potion into a graduated beaker and held it up to the lantern, checking the color and opacity. It seemed to me like some sort of fruit nectar, velvety and rich.

Only then did he look at me wryly and raise the beaker in my direction with a slight bow.

“Your health, Madame,” he said, and drained it in one draught. It took me aback.

“That’s it? You drink it just like that?”

“Would you have preferred me to transfer it to a crystal goblet?”

“No. I suppose I expected a little more ceremony, that’s all.”

“The last twenty-four hours have been ceremony enough for me. I’d prefer to get on with what is likely to be an unpleasant interlude in my life. Now, if you will bring me that stack of labels and a quill, I will bottle the rest of the supply and then we may get to bed.”

There were thirteen half-liter bottles, one a day for two weeks. He filled and labeled them with the same attentive precision he had bestowed on the rest of the process, setting them in a rack to carry to the house. I took the rack while he wrapped Albia in the comforter and lifted her in his arms.

Pierce was asleep on the sitting room couch when we arrived, covered with a crocheted throw. His soft boy’s face looked very young.

“Let’s not tell him, okay?” I whispered. Severus nodded, heading for the stairs. I followed, shedding sweaters, hat and robes as I went. He stopped in the doorway of Albia’s room, gesturing with his chin. 

The bed covers had been carefully stuffed with toy animals to resemble a sleeping four-year-old, and peeping out against the pillow, as if she had worn it to bed, was an orange knit cap. Severus raised his eyebrow at me.

“All right, ten points to Slytherin,” I whispered.

We had two hours of sleep before Albia woke us. I groaned at the touch of her hot and none-too-clean little hand.

“Wake up, Mummy. Wake up. It’s morning. I want ceweal and milk, pwease.”

“Go read a book, darling,” I rasped. Albia began gently but persistently to peel up my eyelid. “Stop,” I said. “You’ll scratch my cornea. Please read a book and let Mummy sleep a while more.”

“But I don’t want to wead. I want company,” she said sadly, still poking at my face. He hand smelled like fruit candy and sour milk.

Severus grunted and raised his head. Well, he should be sleeping off the red stuff, so, filled with self-pity, I sat up.

“Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll take over now and get a nap later. Come on, sweetie, let’s go to the kitchen.”

“I want to pway ponies with you.”

“Not until I have my coffee. Coffee first, ponies later.” I maneuvered her out of the room and closed the door behind me.

I was sitting on the floor with her an hour later, my second mug of coffee in hand, casting Animo so that the pink, green and yellow ponies frisked about their stable and spoke to each other. “Let’s get some hay,” said Yellow, in a squeaky voice. Albia held her favorite, Blue Raindancer.

“No,” she said. “Wet’s go to the swimming pond.”

There was a knock. I considered my tired coral chenille bathrobe, my unwashed face and morning nimbus of hair. It would be someone who had seen me at my worst in any case, so I opened the door.

A complete stranger stood smiling at me. Medium height, very handsome, with large, heavily lashed eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. 

“Yes?” I asked.

“Caduceus,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m to assist Professor Snape with his brewing.”

I took his hand. This was Caduceus? I’d pictured a wizened chap at least a hundred years old. This fellow looked to be twenty-five and better suited to wielding a Bludger bat than a medical wand.

“Healer Caduceus,” I said. “You’ve been had.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“We brewed last night. You’re sure Professor Snape said today?”

“Tomorrow at dawn, actually. This was to have been our planning meeting.” He had beautiful pale skin, a fine, aquiline nose and light brown hair worn slightly long. His mossy green eyes now crinkled at me in amusement. “Your husband likes to have his own way, I think.” He peered past me into the house.

“I’m sorry, please come in. Yes, that would describe Professor Snape.”

“I thought so. How is he feeling today?”

“I don’t know. We went to bed right after he took the first dose. He’s still asleep.” Without thinking I led him into the kitchen and put on the kettle.

“Ah, well, now that I’ve gained the castle, I can examine him at leisure.”

“I hope you do scold him thoroughly for misleading you. It won’t mean anything from me.”

“No, I won’t. I thought something like this might happen. At least he agreed to work with me, and I expect to gain a great deal from our collaboration. When I was called to the case, I did hope it was the Severus Snape.”

“Who is this?” said Albia, trotting into the room with a pony in each hand.

“I’m Asclepius,” said the healer kindly, leaning forward to look into her face. “A friend of your father’s. I’m here to help him with his potion.”

“We bwewed it alweady,” she replied. “Too late for you.”

“I am too late, aren’t I,” he said. “Too bad that I missed it. Will you fill me in?”

“I can’t. I fogot. It had coffee and moths, but I don’t know.” She pressed her finger into her chubby cheek, a parody of Deep Thought. “It had cwayons and juice and hippogwiff blood.”

“I see. And how did you help?”he asked. I stood with kettle in hand, enjoying their conversation.

She shook her head. “I just helped. Do you like my ponies? Will you pway ponies with me?”

“I will play ponies with you in a while. Right now I’m getting to know your mother.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “You come in five minutes. Okay?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”

“Okay. I will give you an extensin.” She returned to the cardboard box stable in the sitting room.

”She’s a bright little girl.”

“She drives us crazy.”

“Her name is --?”

“Albia.”

“Ah.”

“She was born after Headmaster’s death,” I explained.

“Those must have been hard shoes to fill.”

“I was terrified,” I said, surprising myself. Feeling slightly guilty, I went back to the tea preparations. “Milk or lemon for you, Healer Caduceus?”

“I’d rather you call me Clepe. And lemon, please.”

“’Clepe?’” came the icy drawl from behind me. Jealous! My heart swelled as I turned to see Severus in the doorway, black hair ruffled in all directions like the feathers of a dead crow. He had pulled on trousers and a shirt, leaving the tails out. He slitted his eyes at Caduceus suspiciously. “Are we to be on a first name basis now that you are in my kitchen?”

“Only if you wish,” Caduceus smiled.

Severus grunted and poured himself a cup of tea, giving Caduceus a sideways look.

“I’m Jehane,” I told him. “If you bring him through this you may call me anything you like. Give me that.” I took the teacup from Severus. “I’ll get you coffee.”

“He’ll bring himself through, I believe,” Caduceus told me, then turned to Severus. “Did you go with the arsenic or the sardonia?”

“The sardonia. The facial spasm seemed more correct.”

“Yes. Otherwise as we discussed?”

“In the main, yes.”

“’In the main?’”

Severus looked down his nose, challenging the younger wizard. “My wife, the renowned hippogriff trainer and riding instructor, had some suggestions, which I incorporated.” 

“May I know them?”

“There was an addition of pearl with an oak rod.” Severus stared him down while accepting a mug of coffee.

Caduceus’ eyes traveled from Severus’ face to mine and back to Severus’. 

“Ah,” he said softly, nodding. I felt sorry for him, so thoroughly and harshly relegated to the tertiary role in our drama, but he himself seemed unconcerned. 

“Were you interested in Potions at school, Jehane?” he asked. 

“Not really. Just what you need to know to get through.”

“Then you must be a wise observer of human nature,” he said. “Those are subtle additions.” I smiled at him. He was a damned charming fellow.

“Now that we’ve handed out compliments all round,” Severus growled. “Might we move on to something more substantial? Or else I’d like to have some breakfast.” 

“I don’t think I heard any compliments from you, darling,” I said, slipping my arm around his waist. “But I can manage eggs and sausages for the four of us if you’ll wait.” Severus grunted assent and sat across the table from Caduceus.

“Professor Snape,” Caduceus said earnestly. “I’m thinking about your choices. If you added pearl, I wonder if the unicorn hair might have worked after all. Rather than the phoenix feather. If you kept that in your formulation?”

“I did. And I did consider the change you suggest. But the phoenix being regenerative in the sense of rebirth, rather than healing --”

“And you had mummy dust, as I recall --”

“Precisely. Destruction preceding rebirth is a more refined paradigm for an invasive carcinoma. A complete razing of the city, if you will.”

I froze, tongs in hand, at the phrase “invasive carcinoma.” I tried to breathe deeply and quietly. Severus had not used those exact words with me and somehow, tossed off so casually, they seemed newly dangerous. 

“Yes, I see.” Caduceus nodded. “Still -- and I wouldn’t have seen it at first -- I wonder if that aspect of purity and single-mindedness -- the pearl -- might have been as powerful, with unicorn. I use phoenix very cautiously, for the reasons you’ve mentioned. Of course, the patient might consider himself equal to the most potent remedies -- ?”

“You have had other patients brew for themselves, have you not?” Severus was not going to be drawn into speaking about himself.

“No, actually, you’re the first. Would you mind if we went over your formula again? And I’d be grateful to hear about the brewing. You too, please, Jehane.” I nodded and turned the sausages as Severus gave an exacting account of the previous evening.

“You didn’t acquaint the batwing with the hippogriff and Luna Moth?” Caduceus asked.

“Not necessary,” said Severus. “Because it is a decoction, no parts remain in the fluid. No harm in acquainting them if you like, but it’s not needed; I’ve not done it since my student days.” He was caught up in his explanation and met Caduceus’ steady gaze with a look that might have been interpreted as friendly. It occurred to me that Clepe had found the way to charm his patient after all. I set out plates of food and poured orange juice for all.

“And the mummy dust? No problems with that?”

“Jehane had a memory reaction, but no, no problems with the addition.” Caduceus glanced at me, and I could see him storing his question for the future before returning to Severus.

Albia wandered in, still clutching her ponies. She was about to make a claim on Clepe’s attention, but spotted the sausages first and climbed into her chair. Scanning the adults, she judged us likely to ignore her manners and attacked them with her fingers. 

Clepe turned again to Severus. “When I’ve brewed with mummy dust myself, I’ve found the post-addition period of tension quite uncomfortable. Really, I felt I might jump out of my skin. How was that for you?”

Severus caught my eye. “More tolerable with a companion.” Really, it was quite pleasant to be wooed like this, so aggressively and indirectly.

“I expect.”

They reviewed the timing, the stirring, the emotional climate and the reaction of the potion for each ingredient. Clepe asked the kind of intelligent questions that gladden a professor’s heart. I wondered at him. I expected someone at the top of his field to seem prouder, more self-promoting. Clepe was not merely taking advantage of Severus’ knowledge, but respectfully building a relationship with him as well.

Before long, Severus was dressed and taking Clepe to the potions lab for a tour. He even allowed him a brief physical examination in the kitchen, although I didn’t witness this, as I was catching Albia before she could get her greasy hands on the couch. I came in as Clepe set down his wand. Severus was straightening his collar.

“Is it -- ?” I asked. “I know it’s too early to expect a change -- But is there anything -- ?” 

“No change, but that’s good,” he said. “In many patients it would have advanced since I’d seen him. He has cells in the lymph nodes of his neck and underarms. I’d like to do an eradication spell, but --”

“For some ridiculous reason I object to putting my power in harm’s way,” Severus interjected coldly.

“The spell does have a fairly high chance of reducing magical power temporarily or even permanently, I’m afraid.” 

“But so does the potion,” I said.

“I brewed the potion personally,” my husband said. “If I’m to be reduced to a shell of my former self, I’ll do it by my own hand.” That about summed Severus up, and I couldn’t argue that it wasn’t right for him. “Caduceus might return to dine with us this evening, if you’ve no objections.”

“That would be fine,” I said. “But I thought we’d go to the Great Hall tonight. They haven’t seen you in several days, and -- oh, morale or something. The students miss you.”

“I doubt that.”

I turned to Clepe. “They do. It’s one of Professor Snape’s little conceits that he is universally feared and abhorred. We try not to spoil his illusions by being too friendly.”

“Oh, might we dine at school?” Clepe’s face lit up. “I’d like that immensely. I might even sit at the Ravenclaw table -- if that’s permitted?”

“Not,” said Severus. “Or we’ll have students getting notions about equality between the generations. I could, however, arrange for you to visit the Ravenclaw common room if you’d like, for a tête-à-tête with the members of your old House.”

“Yes, I’d enjoy that.”

“Albia,” Severus called peremptorily. “Let us show our visitor the lab.” As always, she brought her full cooperation to bear when given the opportunity to go with Daddy. She even found her shoes, although I noted silently that she was still in pajamas.

Severus stopped in the doorway and looked at me for a long moment, black eyes glittering. 

“Get some sleep,” he said.

I woke briefly on the couch in the late morning to a duet of voices in the kitchen, Severus’ deep bass viol saying, “Only the completely intact moth --” and Albia’s indistinct answer, a piping piccolo. Then I drifted off again.

At dinner in the Great Hall that night, I noticed a number of surreptitious looks at Severus. Naturally, since his illness and treatment were private matters, every member of the staff and most of the students were following them with anxiety. Libby Wateringcan, a young second year, caught his hand on the way out of the Hall. When confronted with the stern headmasterly visage, however, she could only quaver, “Have a nice day.” Severus nodded. 

Clepe planned to spend a few hours with the Ravenclaws, then meet us back at the house. While Severus gave Albia her bath, I took the opportunity to sit on the front steps in the late twilight. It was a bit cold, in March, for steps-sitting, but I hadn’t been outside much in several days and I was beginning to feel it. I wore my winter cloak. A chill wind pulled my hair across my eyes and I viewed the indigo sky through strands of orange and, I noted with dismay, some white.

“Hi ho,” Clepe said softly, coming up the path and sitting beside me. 

“Ravenclaw as you remember?” I asked.

“Much the same. They seem so young.”

“Everyone says that when they come back. You have the perspective of an adult now.”

“Willingly or not,” he said wistfully. “I suppose I do.”

“Adulthood has not been good to you?” I asked. He seemed subdued, and I wondered if this were a more authentic Clepe or another form of charm.

“Oh, yes, it has. I’ve been very lucky in my profession. I have work that I love, although it can be -- sad. I’m a lucky man.”

“But?” A sort of soft spell had fallen on us, brought on by the intimate tenor of his voice and the darkening sky.

“That’s all. I live alone. I’d give a lot to have -- this.” He gestured at the house.

“Oh, but surely you will. I mean, you’re young. You haven’t met the right person yet, but I’m sure you will.” 

How did I know? But I said it anyway.

“I’m forty-nine.” I turned to look at him, trying to hide my shock. The same age as Severus. “I know. The person who put the Conservo curse on me thought she was giving me a gift. She was a crazy, lovesick witch, but a powerful one. My first real girlfriend. I had some other relationships after that, but -- nothing lasted more than a year or two, and then even that petered out.” Now I understood the hint of sadness I had felt in him at our first meeting that morning. So many people might pass through your life in several decades of being twenty-two. And what woman could stay with a man who would always be as beautiful and fresh as Clepe?

Severus suddenly spoke from behind. “What countercurses have you tried?” We started; how long had he stood in the door?

Clepe sighed. “Everything I or anyone has thought of. She died soon after, in St. Mungo’s insanity ward. She had a very original mind; the curse was cast with some key I’ve never found. I was just twenty-two; I didn’t grasp the implications at the time.”

Now I understood better his charm and his soothing manner; they were compensation for the authority and gravitas that would not sit convincingly on his boy’s face. It spoke of a commitment to his healing work and of a flexible intelligence that made me like him even more. 

“It was so long ago,” Clepe said. How could I not have seen that an experienced and saddened man looked out of that unlined visage? “I’ve given up on it now.”

Severus came down the steps and faced him. “If the woman is dead, it’s unbreakable,” he said. “Hold still.” Severus leaned forward abruptly and caught a few hairs from the healer’s head, pulling them out sharply. Without comment he wrapped them in a square of paper and pocketed it. “Will you be returning to poke and prod at me? I expect I’ll be nearly dead in a week, if it would please you to see my animated corpse.”

My! Severus seemed to be making a gesture of friendship. Surely Clepe would recognize it.

“Ten days, actually, before you approach the abyss. But I’ll return in seven, to interview you while you can still speak.” 

“Sunday, then.” Severus turned and went back up the steps into the house. Thus was Healer Caduceus dismissed, but not by me. 

“How sick will he be?” I asked.

“What he’s put together is very strong. I would have compunctions about administering that potion to anyone. He is powerful, though, and I think he’s calibrated it well. He’ll be very, very ill and it will continue for several weeks after the treatment period.”

“What can I do?”

“He’ll need to eat and rest. He’s going to be sick to his stomach. Try to keep him free of worry and keep his strength up.” He saw me chewing my lip and rested his hand lightly on my arm. “The pearl and the oak rod were fine additions. They’ll activate positive healing aspects of his character. We all need to know our worth and feel our strength to be healthy.”

“Thanks, Clepe. Now that we’ve met I feel so glad you’re on the case.”

“Me too.”

“And -- I’m sorry for your trouble.”

“Thank you.” He looked away and changed the subject. “I’m going to walk into Hogsmeade before I Floo back to the city. I’ll see you in a week, then.” So we said goodnight.

Severus had a special trick for getting Albia to sleep and he was practicing it when I went upstairs, sitting by the side of her little bed and rubbing his thumb between her eyebrows. Her eyes were closed in bliss and I could tell she was about to drop off. I gave him a wave from the bedroom door and tiptoed away.

I was putting on my flannel pajamas when Severus came into the bedroom. Without prelude, he snuggled up behind me and slid his hands under them to cup my breasts.

“He reminds you of your ex-husband, does he not?” Severus purred, gently kneading the soft flesh in his hands.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose he does. I thought he seemed familiar. I don’t think it’s called ‘ex’ if the person dies, though. Oh!” He was doing a thing that drove me crazy, rubbing my nipples with the flat of his palms. “He’s a very nice -- uh --”

“Take off this execrable garment.” He left my breasts for a moment to tug at the elastic of my pants. “I intend to drive ex-husbands and handsome healers completely out of your mind tonight.” He turned me around and bent to suckle. 

“It might be our last, for a while,” he said practically.

 

 

Notes

I stole this simile -- “his hair sticking up in all directions like the feathers on a dead crow” -- from Juxian Tang’s Lukewarm series. You can find this wonderful and touching story at http://juxian.slashcity.net/lukewarm.html (warning: slash!). 

Thank you to Delphi for her Latin translations throughout. Her first-rate work is at her site: http://delphi.popullus.net/


	20. The Sickroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long siege.

The rack of bottled Celldeath potion disappeared that Sunday. It was in the house somewhere, and I knew he was taking it because the bottle was washed and left by the sink every night. Clearly, it was meant to be a private matter.

I expected that Severus would not allow himself the needed rest until exhaustion brought him to his knees. It turned out that Clepe had overestimated the time it would take.

For three days, Severus resumed his duties -- planning, delegating, monitoring and overseeing staff with single-minded intensity, as if he could ward off the side effects of Celldeath potion by sheer concentration. Minerva stood aside gladly, but he kept her close with a running narrative of his plans and activities.

Avoiding the subject seemed to be part of the plan. Of course it was impossible not to think of it, especially when I returned from teaching and found him sprawled on the living room couch, eyes closed. Until that moment I had never seen Severus take a rest in the middle of a work day.

“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound alarmed. “Is it starting to tire you out?

“Has started,” he answered in a low voice. “I’ll just close my eyes for a moment, then I have a meeting with Flourish and Blotts.”

“Why don’t you -- “ I began, but he was asleep. I crept quietly to the kitchen fireplace and alerted Minerva by Floo.

She was quite firm about leaving him be. “He’s not to come up here for something like Flourish and Blotts,” she said briskly. “I’ll meet with the man, and if he needs Severus in person, he’ll have to come back. It’s just alterations in the Divination syllabus they’re concerned about; in my opinion, no need to trouble Headmaster about it in the first place.”

He dragged himself off the couch two hours later and returned to school as I watched anxiously with Albia holding on to my knees. He did not scold me for letting him sleep.

Next day he made it to the castle but was back on the couch when I stopped in before lunch, pale as milk with dark circles under his eyes. A pile of parchment rested on the floor by his boots.

I rose early Friday to the sound of Albia talking to herself in her room. She was casting spells with a toy wand, charmed to light up when she waved it. I took her downstairs with me and made coffee, then brought Severus a mug in bed. He struggled to sit up.

“Stop,” I said firmly. “Save your energy for tormenting the staff.” I bossed him to cover my discomfort while I pulled him upright and stuffed a pillow behind his back. “You’ll just have to stay in bed this morning. I’ll bring you some horrible paperwork to do.” I handed him the coffee. He took a small sip, shuddered, and handed it back. “Let me bring you scrambled eggs.” He shook his head, white around the nostrils, then gazed at the ceiling miserably. “Okay, maybe later.” He turned his face away, embarrassed and furious.

I left him with a pile of job applications for the DADA position on the night stand and an admonition to keep to his bed. Albia was to spend the day in Hagrid’s company, and was eager to be off. I told Severus I’d see him after my class.

It was a good morning of teaching. I lost myself in the children, the animals and the glorious weather, blustery late March with cloud castles scudding through the empyrean heights. Libby Wateringcan was turning out to be a gifted young rider, as serious and intuitive as her older sister was silly. My older class was in an unusually cooperative and focused state as well, and I fairly much forgot my worries for the morning. 

I returned to my lovely house, the Headmaster’s House, covered with Virginia creeper still reddish from the Fall, its windows gleaming and its front walk showing pillows of moss between the flags. All would be well. I called out to Severus as I came in the front door, without reply. Sleeping, I thought, and good for him. I put on the kettle and went upstairs to check.

The bed was empty. The stack of job applications had spilled onto the floor. The covers were rucked up, with Severus’ pyjamas strewn on top. Most alarming was the potions bottle lying on the floor, a drop of red liquid pooled in its neck. 

I canceled my afternoon classes by Floo and turned off the kettle. Heading toward the castle I struggled not to break into a run. Severus and I did not normally keep track of each other during the day, but having left him in his sickbed, I expected to find him there. He would certainly get a piece of my mind about this. He wasn’t in the Headmaster’s study or the staff room. I called Minerva briefly out of her class; she hadn’t seen him.

“Look,” I said. “Please don’t make a fuss or ask around. I’m sure he’s crept off somewhere and wants to be ignored.” I kept my voice casual, but cold sweat ran down my sides. I thought of how my old cat Mimi, sick with an infected ear, had crawled into the space under our shed, keeping to herself until she died.

“Of course,” she said. “But do alert me when you’ve run him down.” I nodded.

He had gone to earth in the potions lab. There were no classes at this hour and I found him lying on a bench. He had been vomiting into a pan and could barely raise his head.

“You’re shivering. This is a hell of a place for a sickroom,” I said mildly, placing a warming spell on him.

“I --” But he gagged again. I held his head and smoothed his hair back as dry heaves wracked him.

“Come home,” I said. “I need you.”

“What good --” He coughed and heaved again.

“My husband is very ill and it frightens me. I need to have you nearby because your presence comforts me. Please come home, Severus.” In truth, it did frighten me to see him so helpless, and something else besides that I didn’t want to examine.

He nodded with a desperate look in his dull eyes. His skin was yellowish and dry, his pale lips cracked. 

“I know you don’t like it, but it’s either Mobilicorpus or Facio Levis. Which?”

“Second.”

When I had done the spell, I could pull him upright and carry him as if he were a large balloon. I’d never been under this spell, but it is said to feel queer. Severus seemed too drained to notice.

When we had built it, he had insisted the Headmaster’s house have a tunnel to the dungeons and I was glad of it now for privacy’s sake. Nothing obvious marked it, but I had managed to remember which stone in the outside wall of the dungeon formed the key. Getting him through the low tunnel, however, was like carrying an inflatable raft through the underbrush; I scraped or bumped him several times. Finally we pushed through the winter cloaks in the front hall closet. I sealed the door behind us, took him right upstairs and laid him in bed. He was too ill even to make snide remarks as I released the spell, took off his boots and helped him undress, keeping up a distracting narrative. 

“It will be over soon,” I said. “Just a few weeks and you’ll begin to get strong again. Relax your hand, sweetheart, the sleeve is stuck. Accio water glass. Take tiny sips.” I held the glass for him. Although he had nothing left to throw up, I moved a stack of books from his night stand and set a bowl there.

“Damn it,” he muttered with his eyes closed. 

“Right.” I took off my robes and jeans and climbed in next to him in my shirt. “Roll over. I’ll keep you warm. Try to sleep.” I snuggled up behind him and threw my arm over his waist. 

We both slept, to my surprise. I had been so frightened that I welcomed the comfort of holding him safe in my arms. When I woke it was late afternoon, the light slanting through our high bedroom windows. I watched his tense, haggard face. It was dreadfully hard for him to place himself in my hands, to reveal himself in his weakness and need -- perhaps harder than anything I had ever done for him. I touched his eyelids tenderly with my fingertips. My love had not been enough to win my father to me or save Guy. Perhaps it would fail here, too. For this one moment, though, it was enough, and that gave me peace.

There was no more nonsense about keeping up my teaching after that. It had been a silly idea in the first place, a useless distraction from my fear. The younger students were dismissed from classes for the duration and the older ones given free riding periods under the direction of Pierce and his friend Mayblossom Buckley.

Severus stayed in bed. I nursed him as unsentimentally as possible. He could tolerate broth if he kept his head on the pillow so I fed it to him every hour, by way of a spill-proof spoon. He swallowed it without enjoyment. His cheeks were hollow and the flesh hung loosely on his already slender limbs.

Every afternoon Hagrid came to the door with rock cakes or leathery pancakes or a stew of dubious origins. His legendary bad cooking brought tears of appreciation to my eyes and I ate every bit. Each day after I brought the dish inside, he pulled me into a bear hug. “Yeh’ll get ‘im through, I don’t doubt it. Take care of yerself as well,” he said.

I did practically nothing, but every dragging hour wore me down. Seeing Severus so debilitated, agonizing about his prognosis, feeling for him at those moments when he surfaced enough to let me see his misery -- these painful passages drained the energy from me. Except for walking Albia to Hagrid’s hut or to meet whichever student was sitting her for the day, I stayed in the house.

The worst part of each day was the potion. The rack of bottles had been transfigured into a tea cannister on the kitchen counter and then somehow warded so that I did not notice it. Severus had to change it back, and from then on I left it in the ice box.

I couldn’t bear to announce it to him. I brought it silently upstairs at one o’clock every day. As I entered, his sunken eyes flashed a plea, instantly extinguished, to be spared.

“Ah,” he whispered in a cracked voice. “The afternoon libations.”

The first time, I had offered him the bottle itself. The initial swig had brought on a round of vomiting so violent that I’d barely caught the bottle in midair. Potion was splattered on the bed, the floor and the front of my robes as if a bloody murder had occurred.

“Sorry,” Severus panted weakly from his position hanging over the edge of the bed.

After that I held on to the bottle and Severus lay absolutely still, head on the pillow, as I spooned minute quantities into the corner of his mouth with the same enchanted spoon. It helped to keep the potion chilled almost to freezing. Still, he would raise his finger to stop me frequently as he fought to keep it down. It didn’t always work. 

I wanted to ask Clepe about this and other things, but by the time I’d got Albia to bed I was too exhausted to contact him. I’d crawl into a cot next to Severus, clean my teeth with a spell, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Late Saturday afternoon I sat in the easy chair by the bed, holding Severus’ hand. He lay still, eyes closed, but not sleeping. 

A short knock sounded on the front door. Our Floo was open to all our friends, so I assumed it was a student or Hagrid, who couldn’t fit through the fireplace and didn’t like to put me to the trouble of stretching it. 

It was Clepe, smiling kindly and holding a basket over his arm. I felt a rush of relief, and to my embarrassment, my eyes filled and spilled over.

“Come in,” I said, laughing with the tears. “I’m glad to see you.” A little sob escaped me, and as he entered I turned my back. He patted me on the shoulder, but left me a moment to collect myself. When I could face him again, he spoke.

“Have you been doing this alone?” 

I nodded. 

“Why haven’t you had any help?” he asked.

“He’s so private,” I said. “He wouldn’t want anyone to see him.”

“Bugger. It’s not fair to you. Anyway, I’m here for the weekend -- Hogsmeade, I mean -- so I can spell you, and it will give me a chance to examine my patient. How has he been doing?” I motioned him to the couch and sat down in the chair facing.

“We’re doing everything as directed, but sometimes he throws up, all or part of it. All he can eat is broth, and he looks like hell.”

“Why didn’t you owl me?”

“I --” It wasn’t completely true that I hadn’t had time; I certainly could have dashed off a quick note while Severus slept. I had reverted to the same desperate self-sufficiency that had sustained me after Guy’s death. And if, in memory, I traveled far back enough, I knew I would see it in the fifteen year old who rebuilt her life in a stable, and perhaps in a little girl watching foxes from a solitary perch in a tree. I shook my head. “Foolish. I will next time.”

“Please. Oh, and here are a few things I thought might help.” He reached into the basket and withdrew a tall bottle of ginger-colored liquid. “I guessed Professor Snape might have neglected to brew an anti-emetic of adequate strength. This is my own formulation -- boa constrictor and mandrake as well as Venus flytrap. I’m terrified of his opinion, but I’ve had good success with it. An ounce, fifteen minutes before he takes the Celldeath.”

“An anti-emetic. I hadn’t thought of it. Thank you very much.”

He continued to rummage in the basket. 

“I made you a loaf of bread. And this is honey from my bees.”

“Your bees!” I said. “You are a strange kind of healer. Aren’t you always at St. Mungo’s, working day and night like the other specialists?” 

“I am a strange kind of everything,” he said ruefully. “And I do have time for the things I like.”

I led the way to our bedroom, calling out softly, “Severus, Clepe is here to see you.”

Severus lay on his back like an effigy on a tomb, eyes closed, face carved with lines of strain. His hair, a matted mess of black and silver, lay lifelessly on the pillow.

“Caduceus,” he drawled faintly. “Forgive me if I fail to rise.” Nor did he open his eyes.

“How are you feeling, Professor Snape?”

“How do I look?”

“Like the picture of Dorian Gray,” Clepe answered.

“I assume you speak of the portrait and not the eponymous volume.”

“Oh, the portrait, I assure you,” said Clepe. “You do not look nearly as well as the book.” He took the chair by the bed and lifted Severus’ hand. He held it between his own for a several minutes with an abstracted look, reading his patient’s condition by some means like Legilimency. “Mm. You do like a walk on the wild side, don’t you?”

“My life has been dull of late,” Severus rasped. “Since I settled down.”

“Phoenix feather and mummy dust, and the aconite on top of it. Stronger against you than I thought. It’s a wonder you can even speak.” Severus nodded slightly.

Clepe turned to me. “The potion is extremely effective. The malignancy is practically gone.” I saw Severus’ free hand clench against the coverlet and my heart gave a joyful leap. 

He turned to Severus. “But Professor Snape, you will need to reduce the dose, or we’ll lose the patient. I’m sorry. It must be half the current dose for the next two weeks, until you’ve completed it.” 

Two more weeks. From the bitter expression on Severus’ face, I knew he and I struggled with the same disappointment.

“I’ll just get a few things and be back in twenty minutes,” said Clepe, rising from the chair. As the door closed behind him I flew to my husband and gathered him into my arms.

“It’s only two weeks. It’s nothing,” I sobbed. “It’s nothing compared to our whole lives.” He groaned. “It’s nothing.”

He was like a bundle of sticks in my embrace, and I pressed his head into the hollow of my neck as if he were a child. Suddenly all my fear of the weeks before crashed over me and I wept and wept. I realized that I’d hardly touched him since he’d become so weak, afraid of hurting him perhaps.

Weak as he was, he threaded his skinny arms around my back and held me and when I’d stopped gibbering enough to hear him, it was my name he whispered, over and over.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes

The weight reduction spell is borrowed from Bernice. Her marvelous Snagrid stories can be found at http://www.sweetandsour.netfirms.com/archive.htm (warning: slash!).

Thank you to Delphi for her Latin translations throughout.


	21. The Headmaster's House

Clepe’s potion worked extremely well. Severus reported that it tasted like ginger beer and it settled his stomach so firmly that he was able to sit up in bed and take the Celldeath from a small metal cup. It was, in fact, my baby mug, with “Jehane” engraved on the side, but I did not point this out. At the end of the next day he ate a toasted piece of the healer’s bread.

“I have had my share of excellent dining,” he said quietly, resting back on the pillows. “But that was the finest meal of my life.” Was the bread magical in any way? I feared to ask his opinion, for I didn’t know if he could tell.

I was sitting in the armchair by the bed, feet resting on the coverlet, surveying the scene of Severus’ journey back to health. 

Our corner bedroom had beautiful, large windows that looked out on the castle lawn and the path to the stable. A large rowan tree shaded the front side, though in March it was bare and light filled the room from midmorning to late afternoon. Across the room was a fireplace with a marble mantle, and on the mantle was a small framed painting of Severus -- two dots and a circle, with some smeary hair -- done by Albia with her watercolor box.

The bed had been in Severus’ family for several generations. Protective runes were tucked within its carved spirals and ball-topped posts, and I sometimes wondered whether, if Albia had not been conceived against the pasture fence, the bed itself had taken a hand in it. On the day we moved it to the Headmaster’s house, I had asked if he wanted to expand it, wizards having been smaller in bygone days. “Why?” he had bristled. “Do you wish to get farther away from me?”

 

In the following days the nausea abated, but Severus continued to grow weaker. Since Clepe had assured us that he would survive, all anxiety had drained from the house, leaving us limp with tenderness. I gave up sleeping in a cot and got back into bed with Severus, no longer afraid of bruising him in the night. I couldn’t get enough of holding his bony body and kissing him. For his part he seemed to gain strength from our contact. All night we molded against each other and if I came back from the loo, he sought me out with both hands and groaned with pleasure as we found each other again.

One morning we woke to find Albia curled at the bottom of the bed like a dog, back against the footboard and head on Severus’ feet.

The days were harder, though, for by the end of the next week, he required complete assistance to the bathroom and could no longer sit up without support. Weakness was followed by depression. He stared at the wall, not caring if I read to him, answering in monosyllables. Albia gave a puppet show for him one day in the doorway of the bedroom, but left in disgust, saying “Daddy is not so fun.” Clepe suggested a dose of Dreamless Sleep in the afternoon, “only to make the time pass more quickly.” 

He could eat, but without enjoyment. I forced him to down grilled cheese sandwiches, milkshakes, cream rolls and Tastyspell biscuits with giant glasses of whole milk. To my satisfaction he filled out to his former scarecrow’s dimensions.

I was clearing the tray at the beginning of the third week when he grabbed my hand. He didn’t speak but looked at me miserably. I realized I had been feeding him with the impersonal impatience of a professional nurse.

“Oh God, Severus, I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch.”

“And I don’t mean to be a burden,” he said in a low voice.

“It’s more a burden to you than to me.” I set the tray down and took his hands in mine. “You’ll feel better when you get stronger. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not sure,” he said flatly.

“You must put your faith in me. I think you’ll be stronger by the holidays.”

He shook his head doubtfully, but he had used all his energy and lay back against the pillows. After that I kept a close eye on myself and didn’t drift away again. 

It was a happy day when he took the last half-bottle of potion. I smashed the bottle in the bedroom fireplace. He smiled faintly, eyes closed. Although he continued to weaken, I noticed a slight improvement in his spirits. Albia began bringing her toys into our room and playing on the floor by the bed. When I offered to chase her out, he said, “No, I like to hear her.” For her part, she seemed to understand that he could not play along and that she could only stay if she respected his rest. One afternoon I found her sitting very quietly on the bed, arranging a collection of toy animals in the hollows of his body under the blankets.

Clepe came every weekend. It was clear by now that these were not merely medical calls, and I looked forward to his conversation. Always there was that shift when we met; the lovely young man that came to the door, evoking a silent sigh of aesthetic pleasure, vanished to my eyes as soon as Clepe spoke. The faint air of loneliness that hung over him touched my heart; I loved him because he wished to be loved.

We were sitting on the front stoop as we had before, enjoying the long twilight of spring while Albia ran off some of her energy in the garden. Severus was asleep upstairs. 

“When I was at school here,” Clepe said. “This was my favorite time of year. Even with finals coming up. It’s a yearning time.”

Something occurred to me. “Clepe, were you here with Severus and that James Potter and his rotten friends?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Dimly. I do remember -- Severus -- as being rather frightening. Hot tempered and sharp. I don’t think I spoke to him in seven years. There was some kind of incident with Potter and Black, I recall; it went around the school in one day as these things do, then was replaced by other gossip. I didn’t notice them, really. I was wrapped up in Ravenclaw and my studies and the search for love.” 

“Did you find love?”

“Not here. Later I did, but you know that came out badly.”

“That had nothing to do with love.”

“I know,” he said. I thought this was an uncomfortable topic.

“Were you always studious? You’re so accomplished. You must have worked hard.”

“I’m inclined in that way, yes. I like work. I suppose it feels safe to me.”

“What were your best subjects?”

“Herbology, Potions, and Arithmancy. Actually, I liked Quidditch quite a bit but I never played on the team. Too threatening to the studies, don’t you know,” he said mockingly.

“And chasing off the girls, I expect,” I said, raising my eyebrows. This was my first acknowledgment of his unusual beauty. There was a pause while we watched Albia attempt a handstand. Clepe touched his wand and murmured “Inverto,” bringing her legs into the air for a minute. She rolled back down and faced him, scowling.

“Don’t hep me,” she scolded, and went back to trying.

The lights of the castle began to come on, speaking of Yule and home and the vanilla smell of baking cookies.

“Actually,” Clepe said softly. “It wasn’t the girls I wished would chase me.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. But I thought -- the girlfriend who cursed you --”

“Jehane,” he said gently. “People can be homosexual and still -- I really loved Maura, but I was young, and immature on top of that -- I’d spent too much time with my head in a book. If I had known myself better I wouldn’t have started it. I would have seen that I couldn’t do her justice, but I hoped -- and we loved each other.” He sighed.

There were a number of homosexuals on the Hogwarts staff and no one seemed to bother about it. People should do what they liked, Minerva said, “As long as they don’t frighten the hippogriffs in the street.” I had seen a few relationships bloom, or bloom and fade, and of course there were Pomona and Poppy who had been together so long they seemed not so much homosexual as sui generus.

I was not at all shocked, but I was surprised and embarrassed to find that I had misapprehended my friend so crucially. Then I feared he would misunderstand my discomfort. 

“Did you always know, or did you suddenly find out?” I asked, hoping to smooth over the moment.

“I think my experience was typical,” he said. “I knew there was something different about me from a child, and I hoped it would go away or that I was wrong. By age twelve or so, I knew what it was. Puberty, of course, makes it hard to ignore. 

“It’s just another thing that makes me an odd duck,” he said.

I edged a bit closer, so that our shoulders touched. 

“I’m glad you spoke,” I said. “I understand you better now.” 

We sat in companionable silence for a while, leaning into each other.

“It’s hard, watching him and not knowing,” I said.

“Mm?”

“I told you he came downstairs this morning. I was reading in the sitting room. I asked him to come sit and I’d make him a cup of tea, but he wouldn’t. He said he’d do it himself.

“I kept reading, but Clepe, he put the kettle on the stove and added wood. It was awful. Every single thing, he did by hand. He had to stand on tiptoe to get the sugar bowl from the cupboard.

“I’ve done everything for him since his treatment began. It’s going to get harder not to acknowledge it. I almost think the tea-making was on purpose, to show me. He hasn’t a bit of magic, not enough to fetch a sugar bowl.”

“He’s still on the mend,” Clepe said. “The recovery of magic always comes after the physical recovery.”

“He was -- He IS -- a powerful wizard. I’m not sure he can stand it if it doesn’t come back. Not only if he’s a Squib, but if he’s -- average.”

Clepe shook his head. “It’s too soon to tell,” he said.

I was grateful that he didn’t offer false reassurance.

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” I said. “It’s terrible to watch.”

“You’ll be together,” he said.

Albia spied us with our heads together and came over to intrude, pushing herself between us. It made me laugh; she did this to Severus and me as well.

“You hug me,” she said.

“We’re not even hugging, Alby,” I said.

“Well, you hug me now,” she said, so we put our arms around her. She smelled like grass and little girl, and her hair was tangled with the adventures of the day. Clepe looked at me over the top of her head and smiled. At that moment he wasn’t sad.

Severus came downstairs every day after that, usually in the morning, calibrating the amount of energy he spent in order to have enough to climb the stairs again. After the first time, he allowed me to make him tea, and we sat and read together, or went over our finances or played gentle games with Albia. In half an hour or so, he would say, “Well,” rise, walk slowly to the stairs and begin the climb. I never helped him but forced myself to sit while he made the trek back to bed. The hardest work for me now was to stay put; good in a crisis, I knew I was bad for a long haul, and I had learned that I was sometimes glad to avoid closeness. Severus was not the only one who felt safer in a shell. 

I knew he must be recovering when I began to feel annoyed at him. In fact, we were both quite sick of each other. We had a spat about my inability to secure certain reading materials from the Ministry library.

“Minerva will be by with your dinner,” I said that afternoon, tidying and dusting the bedroom. “I need to be out tonight and I’ll take Alby with me.”

“What!” he said, crossing his arms over his nightshirt. “I can’t see Minerva like this.”

“I’ll help you get dressed,” I said. “She needs to talk business with you.” 

In fact she did, and had been pestering me to give her access. Finally my irritation at Severus had overcome my nicety about his privacy. I needed a break from him and I observed that he was well enough to hold up his end without embarrassing himself.

By the time he’d gotten trousers, shirt, vest and socks in place, leaving off the coat as a concession to the sickroom but insisting on a neck cloth, he was out of breath and I was having second thoughts. Minerva had loved him since he was a boy, however, and it seemed unwise to put in a vote of no-confidence at this point. I performed a nice cleaning spell on his hair, gave him a shave, freshened the room with a glamor of spring air and told him to lie down in his shirtsleeves and rest up.

I took Albia with me because we had some long overdue mother-daughter business to attend to. Little girls, even outgoing and independent little girls, can only accept so much motherly deprivation before they develop emotional scurvy. I needed to spend time with her, and the sight of her long legs kicking into the air had suggested how.

It was still light out. We passed a number of students in twos and threes walking toward the castle, hands jammed into robe pockets against the rising chill, minds already on dinner or the social life of the Great Hall. Pierce and Mayblossom gave us a wave without slowing and it occurred to me that they had become a couple. 

We wore sweaters, singlets, hats and gloves. Albia chattered excitedly.

“Do you think Cadbuwy will know it’s my first time? Do you think she’ll be extwa careful with me?”

“Yes, I do. She’s known you since you were a baby -- since before you were born, really -- and she’s very gentle. You know, she’s the one I give to the first years when they’re really scared. And you’re not scared at all, so for you it will be baby magic.”

The griffs had already been stabled, brushed down, watered and fed. Salazar, that greedy guts, was attacking a piece of horse meat, pouncing and clawing it, tearing off a strip, shaking it fiercely and gobbling it down. Albia went to him immediately. 

“Don’t touch him while he’s eating,” I warned.

“I know, Mum,” she said. Salazar stopped his lascivious enjoyment of the meal to cock his head at her, gazing suspiciously out of one black eye. Albia raised her proud chin and made her bow. 

Keeping one foot on the meat, he bowed in return. Albia sighed.

“Come on now, Alby,” I said, opening Cadbury’s stall door. With a backward glance at Salazar, she crossed the stable and bowed to the brown filly. 

Albia had been bowing to hippogriffs since she could walk. The stables were a second home to her and to the inmates she was as much a fixture as the barn cats. So I had to wonder at the strange intelligence of animals when Cadbury, instead of merely returning the bow, pranced playfully forward and kneeled crossways to her.

“Mum, she knows,” Albia breathed.

“Yes, I think so,” I said. “Go ahead and mount. That’s right.” Albia swung her leg over without hesitation. “Roll yourself forward a bit. No, don’t move, just sit up tall. Ah, that’s good. Now remember how that feels.”

She really didn’t need these directions and if she hadn’t been my daughter I’d have been satisfied already. As I’d hoped, her legs were long enough to clear the curve of Cadbury’s ribs, allowing her to grip without fatigue and maintain communication with her mount. Her arms, slightly bent, just reached Cadbury’s wing joint. I stood back and gazed at her for a moment. 

Curious about the lapse in action she turned. Thin face lit by excitement, eyes shadowed by the darkness of the barn and long nose framed by wings of lank raven hair, she looked like Severus working in the lab. Yet it was a hippogriff that brought the light to her eyes; she was at least as much mine as his.

I bowed and led Fidelia out of her stall. She, too, seemed excited by this new development, tossing her head and frisking her tail. Hand to necks, I brought them into the yard and through the gate into the pasture. I expected Albia to protest this unrequested assistance but she did not. I thought she might be a bit afraid.

“I’ll wait until you’re up and then follow,” I said. She nodded solemnly. “Tighten your thighs like in our practice. Lean forward until she starts her gallop and be ready for her wings to snap. Remember, squeeze and post; that’s her cue to go up.”

The moment I lifted my hand from Cadbury’s neck, Albia leaned and they took off like a hex. The brown griff kept her pace smooth, cosseting her passenger. I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s grinning face before they drew away. They were almost to the end of the pasture before the massive wings snapped open and with two beats and a tiny sound like a far off penny whistle, girl and hippogriff were aloft. They climbed to an altitude of thirty feet where for a moment Cadbury hesitated, dropping her legs slightly; then, with a visible settling as they reestablished communication, she climbed again in a wide spiral.

Suddenly my eyes filled with tears as I saw the inevitable outcome of our best efforts as parents; our daughter, filled with delight in her powers, would fly away. Were these tears of sorrow or pride? I didn’t know. The breeze dried them as Albia circled back overhead, shouting something I could not hear. I mounted Fidelia and took to the air.

It was colder up high and I was glad for my layers of clothing and my gloves. Albia hadn’t learned to hover; she circled, waiting for me. As I came up abreast she called out, “Mum, she’s wistening to me!” Until you have ridden a hippogriff, you can’t know the pleasure of meeting such a different mind through the medium of muscle and skin, sympathy and magic.

“Follow me!” I shouted, and we turned toward the castle. 

I had chosen this hour for her first ride because the view from the air is so lovely in the waning light. The castle, as we came around, was like an illuminated dollhouse, each window holding a secret or a scene. I caught a glimpse of Argus Filch, bearing a lantern, passing from window to window down the corridor. Above, some child who should have been at dinner slipped up the stairs to the Astronomy tower instead, and through an attic dormer in the West Wing the nacreous shapes of ghosts appeared, engaged in ghostly business.

I led her out over the lake, its surface rippled by the breeze of evening, then along the border of the Forbidden Forest. Albia brought Cadbury close, for the Forest grows dark early and from the air seems a bottomless abyss. 

Over the gates, with Albia giving a little squeak of excitement, then swinging away from the Hogsmeade road, we reached the edge of the moors. 

With the sun on the horizon, faintly coloured swathes of vegetation alternated with wavy bands of shadow, like a blanket crumpled on a bed. “Stripes!” Albia called, and I nodded. Her fine hair whipped about in the wind. I led us lower to see the glacial rock formations.

“That’s where you met Daddy!” she called excitedly. I was surprised that she could recognize it from the air and that she remembered. We had visited the rocks several times on hikes, but I’d never thought the story had any meaning to her. 

Now I let her lead. She took us straight out over the moors as the sun set. The moon was nearly full, already halfway up the sky in the fading light, giving us a new view of the colorless landscape. Just below, bats flitted, gathering insects in the first hour of the night.

Like most beginning riders, Albia maintained imperfect communication with her mount, marked by Cadbury’s falterings and hesitations. Her little shoulders drooped with fatigue now. She didn’t protest when I turned us around, but rode as close as wingspans would allow, with a satisfied, abstracted air, as if inwardly telling over some part of herself she had just discovered.

We let ourselves into the house, windblown and smiling. I hadn’t seen Albia so serene in several months, and she took my hand.

“Daddy is upstairs with Professor McGonagall,” I told her, pulling off my gloves. “Let’s go see if they want to hear about your first ride.”

When we came to the top of the stairs, however, Minerva turned from her armchair by the bed and gestured for silence. At her feet was a tray with two cups and the remains of a sandwich.

Severus was fast asleep, fully dressed (including boots, which he must have added after I left), his prodigious nose pointing straight up and his mouth open. The tender look Minerva gave me was the type usually exchanged over a sleeping baby. I nodded. 

She glanced at the wand on his bedside table, then back at me. 

I shook my head.

 

 

 

Notes

I believe I may be indebted to Fleable for the idea of magic lost through illness or injury. Her beautiful illustrated story Nimue may be found at http://www.anzwers.org/free/junipe/HPfanfic/Nimue/nimue1.html


	22. Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Severus recover? And a last lemon.

It was the end of April. Severus spent more and more time out of bed and dressed. The difference between his physical capacity and his desires, however, irritated him immensely. He was certain that the school was going to Hell in a hand basket, despite evidence to the contrary and constant consultations with Minerva. He hated to let go of anything, and felt well enough, mentally anyway, to get back to work.

“And here I am taking my damned nap like a two hundred year old pensioner,” he groused sleepily while arranging the crocheted throw over his legs.

We had come in from a springtime stroll around the grounds, one in which Severus moved quite slowly but with evident enjoyment, and during which he had been “plagued,” he said, by young people going out of their way to greet him. Mayblossom Buckley, in fact, had brought Fidelia to ground by the lake and leapt off to make him a sweeping bow with a shout of “Headmaster!”

“You’re a little bit better each day,” I said carelessly, gathering Albia’s toys off the living room floor with the spell Lego. “And as for the rest, it’s a priceless chance to develop the virtue of patience.”

He gave a snort and wiggled down on the couch, resting his head on a throw pillow.

“Get me up in half an hour, will you?” he said.

“Yes. Don’t worry.”

I’d returned to teaching my older students on a reduced schedule, one afternoon class daily. The business of allowing them to teach the youngest students in turn had worked out so well that I’d continued it, giving them class credit. I put the responsible Pierce in charge of the schedule, then left them alone to run it.

The fourth and fifth years were unfortunately neglected; most were too old and proud to be taught by sixth and sevenths and I hadn’t time to get them back in class with me. It fretted me somewhat, but only when I wasn’t thinking of my husband.

It helped me immensely to be out in the spring air every day, and now that Albia was flying she was content to observe the advanced lessons, narrow chin resting on a fence rail. If she grew bored, she took herself to the barn and enlarged her relationship with whatever griff was not working that day. It is the nature of these animals that no time spent with them is ever wasted.

I came into the house with Albia in tow, fresh from class and already thinking of what we might have Wisty bring us for dinner. We tried to eat in the Great Hall every night, but some days Severus couldn’t manage it. As I closed the front door, a crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by an expletive. I was afraid for a moment, then reasoned that if Severus were badly hurt, he wouldn’t be swearing.

Sure enough, my mother’s teapot lay on the floor in shards. 

“Sorry,” Severus growled. He seemed guilty, as if I’d caught him at something, but I couldn’t think what.

“Oh well,” I said lightly. “Accio teapot. Reparo.” I held the mended object in my hands, caressing the pussy willow design with my thumbs. The kettle was on the stove. “Let’s have tea.”

“No, thank you,” he said sourly. 

“All right, then.” The water was on the boil, so I went ahead.

“I wouldn’t mind some coffee, though.” 

As I ground the beans -- Molo -- I said, “Clepe is coming this Saturday. I’d like to cook a nice dinner for us.”

“Clepe comes every Saturday. We should charge him rent.”

“Severus, he’s your Healer. We pay him. He’s our friend as well.”

“All right, then. I won’t say no to a nice dinner.” 

In truth, Severus enjoyed Clepe’s company, partly because the Healer was deferential as well as intelligent and accomplished. He almost never trod on Severus’ toes but provided a great deal in the way of stimulating conversation.

“What’s the matter with him anyway?” Severus asked, sipping his coffee cautiously.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s an attractive man, makes a good living. Why isn’t he paired up with some pleasant mediwitch, two kiddies already on the rolls for Hogwarts?”

“Oh. Well, to start with, he’s gay. The pairing-up part, I don’t know. Probably the curse. I mean, if you were a gay man, would you want a partner who would always look the Adonis while you got increasingly shopworn?”

“I can’t imagine,” he said stiffly. “What I would want, were I a homosexual man. Isn’t that what they like, anyway? To attract the greatest number of partners one after the other?”

“Now you are being deliberately offensive,” I said, tearing the wrapper off a package of Tastyspell biscuits and putting it on the table. Albia had been about to break into our conversation but the biscuits diverted her. Glancing at me, she took as many as her hand could hold. 

“Maybe some gay people are like that, but so are some straight people. Look at Pomona and Poppy, they are as faithful to each other as the day is long.”

“They’re women. Women are naturally monogamous.”

“Look at Remus. He’s not looking for ‘the greatest number of partners, one after another.’”

“And a good thing too,” Severus smirked. “Since he hasn’t managed even one.”

“I’m talking about the principle --” I began, but a little quirk in the corner of Severus’ mouth alerted me to the fact that he was trying to get my goat. “Oh, stop. You don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

“No, I don’t, but saying it has been quite diverting.” He gave me one of his rare genuine smiles of pleasure. It was so lovely that I rose from my seat and settled in his lap, hugging him tightly.

“You’re feeling better,” I said.

“Yes. If you don’t crush my legs.” I had never quite returned to my former spindly proportions after Albia’s birth, and given our equal height and Severus’ illness, I had just under a stone on him.

“Well, would you like to sit in my lap?” I teased.

“Absolutely not.” He shooed me off, but I knew he liked my playing and flirting. We smiled at each other. Then with the unerring instinct of the jealous child, Albia dropped her massive handful of biscuits on the floor.

That night we sat up together in bed, reading. The shades were drawn, the lantern over the headboard bathing us in a pool of yellow light. I snuggled a bit closer, bringing our shoulders together. When I turned my head, my nose almost touched Severus’ hair. He smelled good; the metallic, alienating scent of Celldeath potion that had leached from his pores for months was gone. I dropped my hand onto his skinny thigh. He stayed fixated on his book. I nuzzled his neck; in times past this had been a clear, and rarely ignored, signal.

He took my hand from his leg and held it with a pained expression. My heart sank. 

“You are enticing,” he said in a low voice. “But not yet. Soon, but not yet.”

Stung, I nodded and turned back to my book. 

Severus put his hand over the page and pushed the book aside.

Pulling me to him roughly, he took my head in his hands and gave me the sort of possessive, thorough kiss that had become a rarity, gently nipping before opening my lips with his and slipping his tongue inside. He took his time with it, inching his hands into my hair and breaking the kiss to rub his nose against mine. 

“I said soon,” he said fiercely. “And I meant it.” His black eyes bored into mine, daring me to feel hurt, to feel alone. I needn’t have. 

“Soon,” I agreed, and returned to the luxurious feel of his lips and his warm body. He seemed to be implying something more, and I wondered, but when we snuggled down to sleep, I was at peace.

When I came in from teaching the next day, I found him resting on the couch. His light cloak was thrown over the arm and his boots stood by.

“Oh,” I said. “Have you been out?” This would mark his first unaccompanied excursion, but as he seemed to be treating it casually, so would I.

“To my study,” he said. “And the Potions lab. That damned Mugwort may be an adequate teacher but the lab is completely disorganized. I don’t see how he can find a thing, or stand the mess.”

“Well, he only teaches. He’s not using it for personal research. It’s probably neat enough for his purposes.”

Severus snorted. “It’s a blot on his escutcheon as a Potions master. Disorganized lab, disorganized mind. And a bad example for the students.”

“Mm. What were you doing in the lab, besides thinking evil thoughts about Mugwort?”

“I couldn’t work in such an environment. I took a few things to my study.” 

I ignored the fact that he hadn’t answered my question.

“And when you got there?”

“Went over next year’s letters and replies. Minerva had done, but I wanted to check her work. I believe Slytherin House will be well populated next year.”

“Old families?”

“Yes.” He glanced at me. “And took a short nap with my head on the blotter.”

“Ah, well, it’s our secret. I expect the school is glad to see you back.”

“I highly doubt it, and since I went by tunnel, the school may yet be unaware of my return. I hope for a few days of blessed peace before they descend on me.”

From that day on Severus went to the school every day for at least a couple of hours and his spirits showed a marked improvement. But he carried everything by hand, walked everywhere on foot, made his tea with a kettle and left all domestic magic to me or Wisty.

+++++++

 

Severus had had quite a good day. The weather was warm and the students, though infected with spring fever, were cheerful and tolerant. Classes had gone smoothly, staff were happy, and he had spent the whole day in the castle, capping his contentment with a staff meeting that passed efficiently and ended on time. 

After the meeting I went on ahead to get Albia back from her sitter and change my clothes. It had become our custom to let Severus have a lie-down before dinner, but I thought that he might do without it that day.

He looked like his old self, coming through the door with a bundle of parchments and the slightly suspicious expression that always marked his return home.

“Daddy! Fly me!” Albia ran to him, arms lifted for levitation. She hadn’t asked for months, once we’d explained that Daddy wasn’t strong enough to levitate her while he was ill. I winced to myself as Severus’ hand moved toward his wand pocket, then dropped.

 

“Forgive me, Albia,” he said. “I cannot. But someday soon I will.” 

He set the scrolls down, pulled his boots off and lay on the floor, gesturing her to rest her tummy against his feet. “Lean forward. I’m going to pick you up.” Knees against his chest, slowly and with great dignity, he lifted her, looking up into her wide, gleeful eyes. She held herself straight and shrieked with laughter at the feeling of his feet against her belly.

“Ah ah, no drooling,” he cautioned. Her hair flopped down to curtain them.

Now I knew what Soon meant.

+++++

 

When Albia was two and a half, she had not yet begun to speak. She had been babbling for six or eight months, producing long passages of convincingly inflected gibberish, but not a word. Then one day at dinner she looked at Severus’ wine glass, held out her hand, and said, quite clearly, “You gimme dat.” From then on, she spoke in sentences.

As the end of May and the final weeks of school came into view, Severus settled entirely back into the role of Headmaster. There was no more napping, he looked as pale and hale as ever and Clepe pronounced him completely cured, a determination in which magical means of diagnosis have the advantage over the Muggle. I watched anxiously for signs that Soon had arrived, but by some silent, mutual agreement, it was not discussed. We both knew, anyway, what it would mean if Soon never came.

One Saturday afternoon he excused himself to work in the Potions lab -- having organized it to his own satisfaction and the anxious distress of the young Professor Mugwort -- and returned hours later smelling of Mandrake and flobberworm, a scent that reminded me of the early days of our love.

“Mmm,” I said, rubbing my nose against his neck. “You are wearing my favorite cologne.”

“Eau de Flobberworm, I assume?” 

“Yes. So earthy, so -- grr.”

He pulled aside the collar of my shirt and leaned in to kiss my neck. 

“Let me take that child out and run her; we might get her to sleep early.” 

A little thrill ran through me; the Albia-early-to-bed form of foreplay had not been seen since before Severus’ illness.

“Okay. I’ll make us a little supper.” 

They returned pink-cheeked and cheerful from a walk to the gates and some tree climbing, Severus speaking to her in an animated, soothing voice intended to lull her into sleepy calm. I dished out cheese on toast and tinned tomato soup while Albia described how high she had climbed and how she’d “almost got a bad scratch.”

Odds were better that I could get her to sleep than Severus, so I took her upstairs while he tidied the kitchen. A warm bath, a short story, a kiss and she was down for the night.

I stopped at the top of the stairs, listening for the sound of running water or a dish brush, but all was silent. I went on to our room to brush out my hair.

Severus was sitting on the side of the bed with his wand held loosely in his fingers. His black robes and shining boots had been spell-cleaned and the dim room held the refreshing ozone scent of recent magic. Our eyes met. He raised the wand and said quietly, “Claudo,,” and the door latched behind me. 

I took a sharp breath. Tears pricked my eyes but I withheld them.

“Accede.” 

The Beckoning spell, which works on the will of its object yet produces no sense of compulsion, is difficult to cast well. It drew me forward with irresistible attraction until I stood before him. His black eyes, intent upon my face, brimmed with triumph. 

Black eyes, black as the cold sea, in a face lined by harsh living. To look into them was to be invited into a world of struggle and pain, a world in which every victory was dearly bought. There were no others in the world for me.

“Comperio.” The sides of my shirt fell apart at his whisper and he leaned forward until his nose rested between my breasts, inhaling deeply, then nuzzling. His arms encircled me, wand hand lightly fisted against my back.

He nosed the underside of my breast and rubbed his cheek against it, eyes closed , with a sigh of happiness. I combed my fingers through his hair, enjoying my license.

“Spolio.” 

I stood naked as his long fingers ran appreciatively, slowly, up my sides and down my ribs, circling around to cup my buttocks, softly brushing my pubic curls.

“Lovely,” he murmured. I moved to push aside his robes, but he caught my hand. He kissed my fingers, my palm, my wrist. “Wait.”

He stood. Beneath his robes he wore trousers, waistcoat, shirt, neck cloth, socks and boots. He had cast the old glamour that made him seem taller. As he pulled me closer, the scratchy wool of his waistcoat rasped my nipples lightly, and I tipped my head to meet his eyes. Standing naked before the Headmaster in all his authority, I shivered with anticipation; it had been a long time since we had played this game. 

His kiss, though soft, was commanding. He teased my tongue with his, sucked my upper lip, then passionately enveloped my mouth.

He brought me closer still, wrapping me in the fabric of his robes. Cocooned in black that brushed my skin from shoulders to feet, I came alive, wriggling myself against him. This, too, was part of the game -- that I become disgracefully aroused and practically beg him. I could see this wouldn’t take long.

He hummed a nonchalant, tuneless melody in the back of his throat as his long tongue explored my jaw and behind my ear, then moved down my neck. When his hands came up to pinch my nipples, I gasped and stood on tiptoes, rubbing shamelessly against his leg.

“Hm,” he said thoughtfully, pinching them again. This time he gave them a little jiggle. The feeling ran from my nipples to my clit, a hot liquid like melted butter.

He took his time, stroking my back and kneading my buttocks, kissing me deeply and then lightly, gathering my hair and combing it out with his fingers. He held my waist and bent me backward, sucking and biting my breasts until I sobbed with excitement. Every movement let me know that he was in charge.

“Here.” He laid me on the bed and climbed up, throwing his leg over mine. Once again the cloth of his robes settled over me with light touches. Propped on one elbow, he reached for my hand. There was a moment of awkwardness. He fumbled and I giggled. Then our eyes caught and held -- we were back with each other; that was what mattered. As he rolled on top of me, he murmured a heaviness spell and the buttons and seams of his garments pressed into my flesh.

He was deliciously warm and solid, smelling of wool and skin and the brisk wind outside the house. Pinned by his magical weight, I could only pant and moan as he teased me, blowing lightly in my ear, nibbling and nuzzling under my arm. He held my arms overhead and worked his leg between mine, using his hipbone to rub me gently. 

“Please,” I gasped. He chuckled and released my hands, kissing his way down my throat, my sternum, my belly, to bury his nose in my curls. That first touch made my toes clench and my hips rise like a cresting wave. Still he teased me with indirect soft touches.

“Severus, please,” I begged. His tongue separated my swollen labia, slithering through the slickness there.

He licked me with long strokes. His groans of enjoyment stoked the fire as he swirled and sucked. Hands buried in his hair, thrashing, I climbed and climbed until I toppled into shrieking bliss, pressing myself against his clever mouth .

++++++

 

When I opened my eyes Severus was panting as if the climax had been his, hair tipped with beads of sweat. He climbed up beside me and lay with his eyes closed. I watched his face.

Yes, he would have needed to know that he could master me this first time. He could not have borne for me to watch him struggle or fail.

He rolled over and the eyes he opened to me were still black, but as a summer night is black, safe and still. Black as river stones washed by clear water, black as the inside of a nest. We lay face to face.

“Your eyes are green,” he said softly.

“Yes, they always have been.”

“They are beautiful.” He took my hand and laid it on the placket of his shirt. “Undress me,” he whispered.

It took my breath away. This was the fruit of our years together, our struggles, all the times I had held fast to him while standing against him -- that in one evening he might possess and control me, then hand himself to me as easily as a boy shares a toy.

I knelt there and untied his neck cloth. I undid the buttons, kissing each exposed patch of skin, inhaling the scent of damp cotton, the faint remnants of the afternoon’s flobberworm and his own familiar musk. I pushed the shirt open and caressed his skin, lightly sprinkled now with gray hairs as well as black. His small nipples puckered at my touch and when I bent to suck them he gave a soft “Ah,” and thrust his chest against me.

I lavished them with sucks and licks and small bites until he squirmed and moaned, then I pulled him up to sitting. The bed creaked as I moved around to kneel behind him, unbuttoning his cuffs and lifting the shirt over his head. I pressed my warm breasts against his back; his skin was cool and he hissed through his teeth. 

Severus leaned his head back into the crook of my neck as I held him. I pinched his nipples and pulled him tight against me.

I sighed and bit lightly at his nape. My hand drifted downward to caress the soft part of his belly and inch under the waistband of his trousers. 

I pushed his hand away from the buttons of his fly.

“You wanted me to do it,” I said. He made an impatient noise in his throat that changed to a groan as I rubbed him through the fabric. He grew harder under my hand. My other hand slid downward to cup his balls. He thrust against my palm. I kept up this veiled friction as his breath quickened and his hips jerked and strained under my hands.

Now I worked open the top buttons, wiggling two fingers inside and under his pants to find the silky hardness of his glans. There is a certain place, under the tip -- I teased it gently. Severus arched back against me, thrusting his pelvis against the restraining trousers with a gasp. He was still wearing his boots. I finished unbuttoning him and drew out his cock, red and thick, then pressed him backward against the pillows.

I circled around to look at my handiwork.

Half naked, perspiring, trousers pulled down around his hips and cock standing, the Headmaster was at my mercy now, begging for my touch. He granted me this, lying relaxed and expectant because he wished it and trusted me. 

I took my wand from the night stand and undid his boot buttons, yanking off the boots and dropping them to the floor. Socks, then trousers and pants together and I straddled him, leaning forward to rub my nipples against his chest. I was wet again from the kissing and play, and my soft folds came up suckingly against his cock. I laced my fingers in his to hold him still while I kissed him, licking his lips and teeth, biting lightly with a growl.

“Merlin,” he gasped, as my wetness caressed his shaft. That single word from my taciturn lover set all teasing aside. I reached down, lifting and arranging myself to take him in, the feeling of him opening and filling me raising the fine hairs all over my skin.

With a long gasp he thrust upward and grappled me down against him. Games forgotten, we ground together in a passion of groans and cries. He pulled me tight and rolled us over, folding my legs back and biting my jaw.

“God, Jehane --”

“Severus, oh, God --” 

He thrust again and again, each one a shock of pleasure. 

“I can’t --”

“Yes, come on,” I urged.

His breath came raggedly. I opened my eyes to see his closed lids, lips drawn back in a grimace of pleasure, shoulders straining. He was about to come. I locked my legs around him.

“Ah -- ah --” He shivered, breath held, and threw his head back with a cry. A moment later, it crashed over me as well.

+++++

 

It seemed very dark in the room. Severus lay on me bonelessly, breathing in the space between my neck and the pillow. In a few minutes I realized that he had fallen asleep. 

“Tch,” I said. “Move over.” He rolled off, keeping an arm over my belly. Just before sleep, the tears that had pricked my eyes returned, this time to swell and trickle down my cheeks. 

He was whole.

 

 

 

Notes: This chapter was beta’d by Rickfan37 and Gina R Snape. Latin was graciously provided by Delphi.


	23. Death is the Mother of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clepe makes a choice.

“Healer Caduceus,” Severus said carelessly. “You may be interested in trying this.” He held out a small flask.

It was something of a celebratory dinner, the term having ended as had Clepe’s professional relationship with us, although I hoped he would continue as our friend. We were sitting around the small dinner table in the Headmaster’s house, curtains drawn against the late-falling dark, last of the wine still in our glasses. Clepe had brought Albia a lovely book; she had taken it to the living room and was examining the moving illustrations with interest.

Clepe cocked his head. “What -- ?”

“It will age you. Or rather, it will alter your appearance to match your chronological age. It is not permanent; you will need to take it monthly. I am willing to provide it for you, if you wish, on that basis. As you have brought your considerable talents to bear on my problem, I thought it only fair to focus mine on yours. If you wish, of course.”

Hope and fear fought for dominance on his face as Clepe gazed at the flask. 

“May I -- know the contents?”

Severus nodded solemnly. 

“Naturally occurring paradigms for the effects of time are rare, of course. The non-magical ingredients required spell work. Some materials were gathered at the seaside. There is a dust from the North American desert for which I was lucky enough to locate a source. Also from North America, Giant Redwood bark. Tortoise. Minced flobberworm and Mandrake.” He paused. “The base is mother’s milk, so very little heat was used.”

“Side effects?”

“I think I’ve titrated the dose properly for your age and size. You might feel some muscular aches but they should pass with continued use. The formulation is self-limiting; you cannot look older than your proper years. It is not a glamour, nor does it negate the original curse. It is simply an overlay that will read the natural age of your cells and bring your appearance into accord.”

“You devil!” I said. “Were you working on this last month?”

“I have been working on this for many months,” he said smugly. Dropping his eyes, he continued contemplatively. “I suppose it was a bargain with the gods; I worked out several formulas but I couldn’t complete them without -- without my magic.”

I grinned. “So if the gods would grant you your magic, you’d do a good deed in return, is that it?”

“Why else?”

Clepe turned the flask in his fingers. He looked at Severus and then me, holding our gaze in that untroubled way he had. His eyes were extraordinary, deep green and so thickly lashed I thought of them as “thatched.”

“Oh, why else indeed,” he said softly. “You won’t mind if I take it home and give it some thought. It represents a big change.”

“Not at all,” Severus said. He seemed discomfited by Clepe’s steady look. “Merlin knows, there can’t have been another call in the world to make it. I was glad for the challenge. It took my mind off the damned indignities of the treatment.”

“Yes, of course,” Clepe said.

“Hasn’t been tested, in any case. It may not work.”

“That, I doubt,” said Clepe. “Give me some time to get used to the idea.”

“Clepe, look at the dragons!” Albia nearly knocked over Clepe’s wine glass placing her book on the table. I caught it with a righting spell and took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Is that your favorite chapter, Alby? I think you like dragons best.”

“No, Mum,” she answered. “Hippogriffs. Because they are our famiwy business.” She said this so somberly that we were hard put not to laugh and the conversation went on to other things.

+++++

 

“Will he take it, do you think?” I asked Severus that night as I hung up my robes and took my pajamas off the hook on the back of the closet door.

“He damn well better,” Severus growled, taking off his boots. “It’s brilliant.”

“It may be, but he’s adjusted to his life as it is. He may not want to readjust, even to something he’s wanted. It could be a terrible disappointment.”

“I thought he’d be happy with it.”

“He is. He’s happy that you did it for him. It was a wonderful, thoughtful gift. And brilliant. But oh, Severus --”

“What?”

“He’s so beautiful.”

“He’ll still be beautiful. Beautiful people don’t grow less so with age. Take yourself, for instance.” I snorted. He looked at me sharply, stood and took me by the shoulders. Glaring into my eyes, he said, “Be ruled by me on this.”

I nodded. It wasn’t true; I’d never been beautiful or even good-looking, but I could understand that in our world, the world between us, I was. He wanted me to have that, as I wanted him to have it from me and that was better than anything the outside world might say. I leaned against him and we kissed.

We didn’t see Clepe for a month. I was accustomed to having an owl or Floo from him every other week or so. I assumed that he was thinking about Severus’ gift and deciding, or perhaps working out how to decline it. Or had he taken it?

Then one Saturday morning, at the hour when we were always dressed and washing the coffee cups -- for he knew us that well -- there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and there he was.

Eyes still green, but faded now and nestled in a delicate web of wrinkles. The thick lashes were stubby and pale, the fine skin coarsened and marked. He had cut his hair short, for it was thinning on top and dusted with gray. That rose petal mouth, no longer sweetly chiseled but blurred and bracketed with deep lines, curled in a smile of good humor.

“Do you know me then, Jehane?” he asked.

“Oh,” I laughed, throwing my arms around him. “Do I know you? You’re beautiful. Hello, Clepe.” It was true. He was more beautiful with the history of love, suffering and sacrifice written on his face than he had been in his pristine, doll-like preservation. I would not have credited it.

I pulled him into the house, excited.

“Severus,” I called. “It’s true. Come here! Clepe is here!” 

“Did he --” Severus entered the room and stopped. “Ah. The tortoise was correct, then. Any muscle pain? Good.” He leaned back, tilting his head, to appraise his work. 

“I’m feeling quite the Old Master,” Clepe said.

“He’s just congratulating himself,” I said to Clepe. “Please do sit down and let me bring you some coffee. Then tell us all about it.”

I paused as Albia appeared in the doorway. What would she make of this?

She charged in calling his name, then stopped, eyes wide. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make out the change. Staring, she came closer. Finally she seemed to settle it.

“You’re a daddy,” she said.

“Yes.” He smiled broadly. “I am a grown-up man. Do you know what? I always was one. In disguise.” I wondered what she had previously considered him -- a student, perhaps?

“Oh.” She was losing interest already. “Did you just happen to bring me something?”

“Oh, let me see.” Clepe patted his robe pockets. “Why yes, I seem to have something here.” He withdrew a tissue paper disc, segmented in colors like a beach ball. I had seen these before, but long ago -- fragile paper balls blown up with a quick puff. As soon as he inflated this one, it left his hand and hovered over Albia’s head, orbiting like a miniature moon.

“It’s paper, Alby, so touch it gently,” he said. Tipped with her finger, it sailed away and resumed its orbit around a lamp.

“You don’t have to bring her something every time you come,” I said.

“Oh, I know,” he answered. “I’m getting terribly spoiled. If I don’t stop, I’ll be completely intolerable.” There was something -- an easy expansiveness -- that I hadn’t seen in Clepe before. It was as if a spark of anxiety about being accepted, one I’d not even registered, had gone. I poured him a cup of coffee and warmed it. Dark, no sugar.

“You are well?” Severus asked as he settled into his wooly armchair with the worn arms. Clepe took his accustomed end of the couch as I did mine. It was the same bird-headed couch I’d brought from France, but it rarely spoke anymore. Perhaps it had had its say.

“Oh -- yes, as you can see.”

“But what’s it like?” I asked. “First of all, when you took the potion, did it happen all at once? What did you tell people?”

“Not all at once.” He turned to me. “It took about a week to settle. I just got older every day. I know --” He held up a hand to Severus. “I’m not older. I just look my age. It took about a week. My coworkers thought I was overtired; in fact my Chief offered me time off. There was a point, though, where everyone caught on.” He sat reflecting for a moment. “It’s funny. Everyone knew about my curse -- a hospital is a small place -- but no one ever mentioned it. Now they tell me how well I look. I think they must mean, ‘how normal.’”

Severus nodded. “Most people won’t make much effort to overcome visual-cognitive dissonance. They’re glad you’ve taken the work out of it for them.” He said “most people” with a faintly contemptuous air. 

“No one asked?” I said. He shook his head ruefully. I thought again how strangely alone he was. “So -- what is it like?”

He smiled. “Easy. As in, at ease. Even though the staff know what’s happened, they can’t help warming up to me. It hurts a bit, actually.”

“Because they didn’t bother, before.”

“Yes. They couldn’t help it, I suppose.” 

“They could help it,” I said. “Lazy, stupid people.”

“Ah, Jehane. Not everyone has this mysterious taste for me that you two do.” I glanced at Severus. He watched, unmoving, but did not gainsay Clepe’s observation.

“I’m taking Albia down to the stables; will you come along?” I asked. Clepe did not ride, but he had an amiable enjoyment of whatever was on offer, and he could walk on the moors while Albia and I flew overhead.

“I’d like that; maybe you’d care to cover the ground with me, Severus, while the ladies take to the air?”

My husband nodded once and rose. He rarely involved himself in my riding activities, so this was a treat.

Albia and I flew out over the moors then doubled back. Below, Clepe and Severus walked, leaning in toward each other, the taller, black-clothed figure gesticulating, the other nodding intently. Severus had shortened his stride slightly to accommodate his friend. He looked up and lifted his hand in acknowledgment. I expected they were talking about potions or wandless magic, of which much healing was composed. 

*****

 

“Will you come up to the castle for lunch?” I asked Clepe. “I think it’s Welsh rarebit.”

“Thank you, no; I’m meeting Remus Lupin for a drink at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh. I didn’t think you were friends. You were at school together.”

“We haven’t been, not much, but he was in London last week and we had lunch. I’m considering beginning a social life and I thought he might have a few ideas for me.”

“Not bloody likely,” Severus snorted. “Unless you want to conduct your entire social life here on the Hogwarts campus.”

“Remus doesn’t go into town much,” I explained.

“I like the Hogwarts campus,” Clepe told Severus.

“You have all of London,” Severus said. “You’ll find a lot more variety there.”

“I like depth, not variety.” 

I wondered if Remus himself were the attraction. I couldn’t imagine anything better for the two of them, but if Clepe were only venturing out now, he might be quite new to the kind of relationship that Remus would be ready for. Still, no one was kinder or more patient than Remus. 

Surprisingly, Severus made no sarcastic comments about Professor Lupin. We saw Clepe to the door. 

Once Clepe had left, I flew into Severus’ arms. 

“Thank you.” I kissed his nose. “Thank you.” I kissed his forehead. “Thank you.” I kissed him long and hard on the mouth.

“For what, precisely?” He drew back, scowling, arms crossed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Look what you’ve done for him.”

“Oh.” He waved his hand. “Well. Answered prayers. We’ll see if it makes him any happier, which I doubt.”

“Yes, we’ll see.” 

I will tell you now that it did. Clepe was happy indeed and his happiness was added to ours for many years afterward.

 

 

Author’s Note

“Death is the mother of beauty.” -- from the well-known poem Sunday Morning, by Wallace Stevens.


	24. Protecteur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full-circle.

Albia’s war with me had ended on the night of the brewing. In the months following she had become a picture of reason and cooperation. Now at four years old, stretched to new heights by a growth spurt, she was hardly recognizable as the fierce little savage who had fought me at every turn.

She swung her bucket insouciantly as we took the path to the stables one early June morning, her wellies gallumphing on the stones. The castle was still asleep behind us, students just stirring.

“Mum, I can ride Sawazar, I really think I can. For a short ride if you take him out first. You ride him, then I will take him when he’s more tired.” Salazar was a powerful, headstrong animal and responded best to a strong manager. I did not allow the younger students or petite girls to ride him.

“Alby, no. You just aren’t strong enough yet. A kid needs long legs to hold him. When you are older.” She was already tall for her age, and I had no doubt she’d be able to ride him in her teens. Not entirely accustomed to my newly temperate daughter, I braced myself for a storm.

“Do you think when I am five? Then can I?” 

“No, not until you are at least a third year. Honey, even Libby Wateringcan and Thomasina Way aren’t allowed on Salazar.”

“Mum.” She rolled her eyes. “They are little, little girls.” She was right; they were small twelve year olds who wouldn’t get much bigger.

“You are also a little girl. You are little in your body and you are still quite young. But you are allowed to ride Protecteur and Cadbury.” Only Albia rode the elderly, arthritic Protecteur now, and he had proved a patient collaborator in her development as a rider. 

She dropped her eyes sadly and took my hand. “But I really, really want Sawazar.”

“I know. It’s hard to wait. But all you are learning with Protecteur, someday you will put to use with Salazar. And he will appreciate it.”

“I love him, Mum.”

“I know.” How fitting that our strong-willed daughter should fall in love with the fiercest, strongest, proudest hippogriff in the stable -- the one animal she was not allowed.

The stable yard was quiet in the slanting sunlight. The stable cat, who was not a familiar but just an ordinary cat for keeping down mice, sat in the doorway watching sparrows take a dust bath.

We had to pause inside the door to let our eyes adjust to the dark. Something seemed different. There were no cries of greeting, just a restless shuffle of hooves and claws on the boards. 

We proceeded, slowed by the strange quiet. Cadbury extended her head over the stall door with a subdued chirrup of greeting and Albia reached up to stroke her. At the far end of the row Serrebrune regarded me gravely. Protecteur’s stall door was hanging open. Albia touched my elbow and had begun to speak when I saw him.

He was lying part way out of the stall, neck extended, beak open, forefoot clenched in the air. His dull, open eye told the whole story. 

I couldn’t take a breath. By the jerk of Albia’s hand on my arm, I knew she had seen him too. Then -- “I’ll get Dad!” -- and her bare feet on the boards and their soft thuds on the dirt of the yard trailing away. In the silence one of her boots fell over. Protecteur’s eye stared at nothing.

Time stopped and I stood, body dissolving into space, colder and colder. Up where the air was thin I floated, observing the frozen woman through the stable roof. I heard far off running. Then the hollow sound of his boots on the wooden floor, a rush of black and Severus, turning me round and crushing me against the wool of his coat. The world returned with a roar of sound and light and pain and with it a gruesome howling that I knew must be my own.

Held tightly, face buried in the crook of Severus’ neck, I screamed Protecteur’s name. I could not have stood it without the firm circle of his arms. Within them I thrashed and sobbed. Miraculously he knew to hold me tight, tighter, and let me rage.

I screamed myself hoarse. Finally my sobs grew long and ragged, slowing until I leaned on Severus, shuddering and gasping. It must have been a long time; in releasing me, his arms seemed stiff. I looked into his eyes, darkened by pity and distress.

“Come,” he said, leading me by the hand to Protecteur’s body, then standing aside to let me approach. 

I knelt and let my hand hover over the feathered head. Without the animating force, my hippogriff seemed like a beautiful object, formed with a lavish hand for intricacy, pattern, and color. But the liveliness of his eye, the quick movements of head and rufflings of feathers that he used to communicate -- those were gone, and so was he. I stroked him with my fingertips. Fat tears slid down my cheeks. I would never see him again.

“Go on,” I heard Hagrid’s hushed voice from the stable door. He must have been holding Albia; her bare feet touched down then padded toward me. Her hand rested tentatively on my shoulder. I looked up into her face, knotted with worry and stained with tears.

“I’m okay,” I said, but my voice broke. I rested my head against her side. “He’s dead, sweetie.”

Albia patted my hair with her little hand. “Don’t worry, Mummy,” she said uncertainly. 

Severus knelt behind us with a hand on each. “I’ll tell the school. Albia, you go with your mother to the house. Make sure she has a cup of tea and lies down, and then you stay with her. You hold her hand.” She nodded solemnly. “Jehane, I’ll cancel your classes and be back directly.” 

As I left the stable, Hagrid pulled me to him in a one-armed bear hug and I felt him shaking with suppressed sobs. “’Ee were a marvelous animal,” he managed to squeak out. “I never met one so loyal an’intelligent. ‘Ee loved ye like ‘is own child.” 

On the short walk to the house, Albia held my hand tightly, her brow furrowed. That warm little hand comforted me. Once inside she pushed me to the couch and covered my legs with a throw, mindful of her commission, then went into the kitchen to make tea. She couldn’t heat the water, however, and had to bring me the kettle and have me do it with my wand.

The early morning walk to the barn seemed weeks ago. Yet the day seemed not to have begun and ourselves to be suspended in some no-time. Albia climbed up next to me. Her presence was both unreal and vivid. She took my hand again, and hers was a bit grubby.

“Why did he die?” She understood, somehow, that it was good to talk about him. My tears flowed again, but more easily this time.

“He was an old, old man, Alby. His body was used up.”

“He will never know anything more about me,” she said sadly. “He will not see me grow up.”

“No, he won’t. But you will remember him and you will imagine what he would think when you grow up.”

“I rather would see him.”

“Me too.”

+++++

 

We disposed of Protecteur’s body in the traditional way, on a high platform on a bare hill of glacial rock, far out in the moors. Domesticated hippogriffs, friends and allies of wizards since before written history, have always been honored this way. Hagrid insisted on building the structure without help and we brought the body to it next day.

We were a sorrowful sight, a heavy-headed band of thirty-five young witches and wizards, the girls wiping tears from their faces, the boys with grim expressions, Severus and myself, and Hagrid with Albia on his arm, following the levitating body. I had wrapped Protecteur in my best cloak, as if I truly believed it would warm him in the afterlife. The sky was brilliant blue, filled with small clouds.

As we came around a grove of trees, we gave a collective gasp at the structure. The slatted platform stood twenty feet high on beautifully joined poles of stripped birch, carved with wizardly runes of protection and praise. “Graceful flyer,” said one. The poles were sunk deep into the hard earth and decorated with bunches of feathers on leather ties. The feathers rattled and danced in the spring wind. 

High above, each pole bore the head and skin of a ferret. Hagrid, too, had thought of supplies for the afterlife.

Severus said a few words about Protecteur’s strength, patience, and intelligence, and that he had been a founding hippogriff of the Hogwarts’ riding program and a faithful friend to our family.

Then we gave him up to the sky.

+++++

 

The first time I returned to the barn, the empty stall was like a hole in my heart. I stood inside. Bits of his old straw clung to the corners; in time that straw would mix with the new and we would fork it out. Someday nothing of him would remain but what I remembered and then I, too, would pass away.

I stood there every day and as the weeks went by I grew accustomed to his absence. Someday, the stall would be just another part of the barn. It saddened me and I wanted it, both.

+++++

 

“Your little friend Pierce has agreed to take Albia riding this Saturday afternoon,” Severus said, snapping open the Prophet and reaching for the marmalade pot.

“My little friend? Why isn’t he your little friend?”

“In matters of babysitting he is your little friend. In academic matters he is my student, but he is never my little friend.”

“If it’s a matter of babysitting, why are you talking to him anyway?”

He looked at me over the top of the paper.

“I hoped we might take an unencumbered walk on the moors. The weather is supposed to be fine on Saturday.”

“Oh,” I said, chastened.

“I’d like to have my wife to myself for a change,” he said, more softly, “And I’d hoped you might feel that way about your husband.”

“Yes, I do. I’d love to take a walk.”

“Good then, it’s settled.”

Saturday was the third of June, and the weather was, in fact, fine. The air was like a lukewarm bath, with feathery breezes that teased my skin. At the gates we turned away from the Hogsmeade road onto the moors. I had a picnic basket in my pocket.

We walked for some time in companionable silence, enjoying the quiet and letting the concerns of the school retreat. I wondered if we’d be having serious talk or an idle one or perhaps remain silent. All directions seemed equally good.

“Your hippogriff,” Severus said abruptly. “Are you -- grieving -- still?”

I glanced over to show that I was considering his question. A bird burst from the scrub by the path and winged toward the horizon.

“Not as much as I thought I would. I do miss him; I miss him so much. But I know his life was complete and our friendship was complete. I could see that he didn’t enjoy himself as he had. The arthritis -- it hurt him to fly. I was wondering if eventually he wouldn’t be able; that happens sometimes, you know.

“We were so close. I think he saved me. And I saved him. We kept faith with each other, always; that’s what I mean by complete. It hurts like Hell that I’ll never see him again. But it couldn’t end differently. That’s the way it is.”

Severus nodded. He knew he needn’t say anything. We continued on silently for a while.

“It’s funny how the moors change color,” I said. “June is greener than May, and May greener than April, but it’s hard to find just which tiny blades or leaves are making the difference. Subtle.”

“Not really green,” he said. “Something between green and gray. One could equally say that it gets less gray.”

I took his arm.

“Are we complete?” he asked.

“Not in the sense of being ready to die! But yes. For now.”

“For now,” he groused.

“Oh, come on, you know how it goes. We’re good and then we’re not. Then we come round again. We find our way back.”

“Hm.”

We came to the glacial rocks, gray and eternal, crusted with curly lichen. I liked to think that some of the bare patches had been made by our scrabbling feet over the years -- courting, married and then hauling our baby up to catch the view.

What were we now? I looked sideways at my husband, his black and silver hair caught up by the passing breeze, his face still ugly-beautiful but more deeply etched, lips thinner, the hooked nose even more prominent. Illness had not been kind to him, yet when I looked at his face I saw the whole story of how he had anchored me here.

He leapt to the lowest rock, pausing a moment to catch his balance, then up again, and again. At the top he leaned down to offer his hand. Wedded. No more thoughts of going our separate ways, no calculation of benefits versus losses. We had fought our way to the place where all benefits were to both and all losses as well. I had impressed myself deeply on him as he had on me, not for power or possession but to realize ourselves fully, as human beings, in relation to each other.

We stood on the highest rock, looking out over the land. The path we had taken wended its way between scrub oaks and tussocks back toward the Hogwarts gates. In the other direction it stretched to the horizon.

Severus sighed and leaned lightly against me.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

Note

I fell in love with fanfiction when I read my first one -- Rickfan37’s Snape in Love. I was incredibly lucky that she agreed to beta my own attempt.

Rickfan has been my ideal reader, my mentor, cheering squad, critic and handholder. I knew nothing about the fanfiction world and she taught me. She has been more than a beta and more than she knew when she signed on. And because Jehane Desrosiers was a big part of my life for three years, she’s given me a great gift.

Thank you, Rickfan.   
3/9/06


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